Beyond the Breaking Point
by Feyna
Summary: Caught between a rebellious teen fighting for his independence and an older brother struggling to be a parent, Matthew somatizes. Not drawing attention to his fake ailments seems the best way not to further stress the already precarious situation – but when Matthew takes his resolution a bit too far, all their lives are sent into a tailspin. (Human AU; ACE Family)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes** **:** This story is set in the same universe as _Arthur Kirkland's Guide to Being a Big Brother_. While reading the prequel first could offer a better insight on the characters and their dynamics, it's not needed to understand the plot – it's basically just an explanation of how Matthew and Alfred ended in Arthur's care. (In case anybody's curious, I have also added a brief recap in the notes at the bottom.)

I'm not a doctor, so there might be inaccuracies in the medical part, in spite of my research. This isn't the presentation of a clinical case, after all, just something I'm writing in my spare time to have fun.  
On the same note, the story is written from a third-person limited POV; there will be some misconceptions and erroneous notions reflecting the narrator's views.

I hope you guys will enjoy it! And please review :)

 **Disclaimer : **I don't get any profit from writing this. Hetalia belongs to its creator Hidekaz Himaruya; credits for the cover picture go to ルゥコ＠ (pixiv member ID=55970)

* * *

 **Chapter One**

On Friday morning, Matthew woke up to muffled yells coming from downstairs. He groaned, burrowing himself deeper under the blankets as if they could somehow block out the sound. The only accomplishment that came out of the movement was to increase the dull pain pulsing in his lower abdomen.

Matthew would have liked to call himself surprised, or even concerned, but there was no fooling himself. Over the previous months, the scenario he was facing had become a familiar companion to his days. Whimpering when his shifting once again made the pain flare up, Matthew turned to the side table and paddled for the phone before lifting it in front of his face. It was early, there was no need to get up yet – but Matthew knew that he wasn't going to be able to fall asleep again, between the screaming in the background and the throbbing in his belly. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to gather the strength to face the day. Matthew was expecting it to be hard.

What he wasn't expecting was the searing agony that pierced his lower abdomen as he sat up, making him double over with a small cry. White swallowed his vision, the acrid taste of bile singed his throat.

Matthew swallowed down and forced himself to take a deep breath before he attempted straightening up again – slowly, this time, and with his hands firmly pressed against his stomach. His body didn't like it, once again rebelling with an intense burst of pain. Matthew frowned and looked down at his feet, nibbling on his lower lip.

In truth, he wasn't new to random pains. He had started feeling ill and shaky the previous morning, with a dull pain pulsing around his navel that had ended up growing more and more intense over the course of the day. He had never imagined it could turn so bad, however.

 _How typical. Life's always full of surprises, isn't it? I don't know how I could have forgotten this._

A couple of experimental shuffled steps told Matthew that standing straight was almost impossible, the pain intensifying with sharp stabs at each movement. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. If his features showed any sign of discomfort, Arthur was going to notice. Not only he was going to keep Matthew home from school when he had already missed more days than it would be wise _(his perfect grades weren't suffering from it, yet, but for how long would he be able to keep it up?)_ , Arthur was also going to worry to no end without ever finding a solution. Given his past history with illnesses, Matthew couldn't blame his brother – and that was why avoiding the scenario altogether was imperative. Which was completely up to Matthew.

Trying to collect himself, he took his sweet time to prepare for the day. Half an hour later, he was cleaned up and dressed – presentable, in spite of the grey pallor that donated an unflattering ill hue to his already too pasty skin. Matthew elected to ignore it, just like he was desperately trying to keep his mind off the agonizing throbbing inside his abdomen, that hadn't diminished.

 _I have had worse, and I was only a child. I can handle this._

Matthew kept repeating the words like a mantra, but once he got out of the room, his distress only intensified. That time, the pain only played a minor part in it – the ongoing argument was just too loud for him to push it to a remote corner of his mind.

"Just a stupid letter, Arthur!" Alfred was yelling, his voice heavy with all the disdain he was capable of. "What does it even matter? I cannot believe you're making such a fuss over this!"

Matthew flattened himself against the wall as he shuffled to the kitchen, hoping not to be noticed and dragged into the discussion. He shouldn't have worried about that, nobody had the time to pay attention to him.

Arthur's voice joined Alfred, trembling with rage.

"Only a letter? Let alone the fact that this is hardly your first failing mark, which is an issue itself, why did I have to learn it by going through your graded essays? You should have told me as soon as you got home! Instead I—"

Matthew had reached the kitchen. He closed the door to muffle the sounds and let himself double over, clutching his abdomen. The pain had intensified in agony during the short trek, it felt like a knife twisting into his intestines. Matthew was perfectly aware of the cause.

In the living room, Alfred resumed yelling.

Matthew resolutely turned a deaf ear to the sounds, focusing on the array of cereals into the cupboard and pretending not to hear the hurtful words Alfred and Arthur were spewing against each other. In truth, Matthew didn't even need to hear anything to know what was being said. He could have recited the entire argument by heart: the words might change from time to time, but the meaning was always the same.

Matthew's stomach made a summersault that brought bile to the back of his throat.

Breakfast was out of the question. The previous day, Matthew had skipped lunch and his dinner had ended up making acquaintance with the toilet not long after having been ingested. With the pain plaguing his abdomen, that morning wasn't shaping up to be anything better.

Out of habit, Matthew cast a furtive glance behind his shoulders. He shouldn't have worried, Arthur was still yelling at Alfred in the living room. He was at the _'wasted potential'_ part of the lecture – Matthew didn't want to hear it. He methodically took out a bowl, poured just some drops of milk into it, and smeared them over the surface to give the impression of an eaten breakfast. A pang of guilt flared up in his stomach at the thought of wasting food, but it was still better than making Arthur realize he hadn't eaten. Trying to drown the sound of the discussion, Matthew took to methodically washing all the bowls already inside the sink. He turned off the water just in time to hear the door slam closed with a thud that made the house tremble and Matthew's stomach coil in discomfort, increasing the pain in his abdomen. He had to bite his lower lip to restrain a moan, willpower alone prevented him from doubling over.

Just a moment later, dragged footsteps announced Arthur's entrance into the kitchen.

"Oh, Matthew! Good morning. Have you already had your breakfast?"

The forced colloquiality of the words couldn't hide the slight tremble in Arthur's voice. When he turned, Matthew's gaze was immediately captured by the violet shadows that were painfully evident on the tight skin under his brother's eyes. Another intense spike of pain stabbed his stomach, accompanying the clenching of his chest. Matthew stubbornly refused to double over.

"Mmh…" he muttered in assent, doing his best to offer Arthur a reassuring smile.

There was no way he was going to trouble his older brother over something as trivial as a bad – no matter how excruciating – stomach-ache. Arthur certainly didn't need another concern added to his plate – even less if it was nothing more than a product of Matthew's too anxious mind.

Arthur reciprocated with a tired smile of his own and a small nod.

"Good. I trust you've taken your antibiotic, haven't you?"

A lump surged in Matthew's throat. He nodded, using all his willpower not to let the smile slip from his face. Not only he hadn't taken the antibiotic that morning – he was feeling too nauseous for it, he knew he wasn't going to keep it down – the dose from the previous evening had joined the rest of the meal down the toilet drain. Arthur didn't know. He was imperative that he didn't become aware of that second instance, either.

The young man's exhaustion was written as clear as daylight in his slumped posture and drawn features. On the top of the already taxing concerns of a twenty-year-old having to deal with running a family, the constant fights with Alfred were draining Arthur to the point that Matthew was surprised he hadn't collapsed yet. And how could Matthew add another weight to Arthur's shoulders? The mere thought made his lungs tighten so much that he could hardly draw a single breath.

Moreover, it had been more than six years since Matthew's spleen had been removed. Other two, and he would finally live like a normal person and be free to stop taking his prophylactic antibiotic. Missing two doses wouldn't cause any harm, no matter how much Matthew's skin crawled with uneasiness at the thought of disobeying his doctor's orders.

Any doubt evaporated in front of the tired yet unmistakably earnest smile that blossomed on Arthur's lips.

"You're such a good boy…" he exhaled, "I know I can always count on you."

Shame crawled up Matthew's stomach.

"I have to go, I'll miss the bus," he muttered, ducking behind Arthur to rush out of the kitchen and ignoring the painful jolts in his lower abdomen.

He couldn't stop himself from noticing how a bit of tension seemed to leave Arthur's shoulders, allowing him to stand straighter. Matthew felt sick at the thought.

 _A good child? This couldn't be further from the truth. I'm just an anxious, selfish wreck._

If Matthew were a good child, he would fully understand that Arthur just had more vital concerns than constantly paying attention to him – it just wasn't possible, in their situation. If Matthew had truly managed to convince himself of that, his body wouldn't rebel that way in order to be noticed, making Arthur waste precious energy over silly concerns. Matthew was aware of that. And, at the same time, dwelling over it wasn't going to help.

With a tired sigh, Matthew hauled up his school bags and headed out of the door after saying goodbye to Arthur. The cold wind that bit his cheeks made him shiver, bothering him far more than it should have. On the flip side, the combination of cold and heavy bags allowed Matthew to walk slightly hunched over without anybody questioning it. It was a small blessing, the jolts of pain in his lower abdomen were getting more and more intense and harder to hide. Matthew would have been ready to drop to the ground and cry in pain.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and trudged on to the bus stop. By the time he reached it, he was dizzy and out of breath, the throbbing in his guts so intense that he feared he would pass out. Matthew let himself slump on the bench and hugged his knees in front of his chest, trying to find a position that would give him some relief from the pain.

"Woah, you look miserable. Did Art yell at you, too?"

Matthew started at his brother's voice. He hadn't realized that Alfred was still at the bus stop as well, sitting at the other end of the bench with his legs spread open and his hands folded inside the pockets of his bomber jacket. He would've been the picture of carelessness, if not for the thin lines of anger still creasing his forehead and the barely repressed fury darkening his eyes. Matthew missed their limpid blue. Every time he looked at that foreign rage burning behind them, he felt like he was being kicked in the chest.

He shook his head.

"Arthur didn't do anything, I'm just tired. And…" The hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second. Matthew couldn't bear his family arguing any longer. "You know, he wouldn't yell at you, either, if you just _talked_ to him instead of just him having to find out everything on his own."

Alfred snorted and gave an exaggerated eye-roll.

"Who, Arthur? Don't make me laugh, Arthur doesn't do 'talking'. He just decides what's the best for us and demands us to follow through it. He has already made up his mind, there's no way to make him reconsider. Hell, it's not even about getting him to change his mind – he doesn't even get to the 'listening' part!"

Another sharp burst of pain squeezed Matthew's intestines. He hugged his knees closer to his chest, trying to breathe through the agony.

"But… he does have a point, Al. I mean… not with everything, but… you're really smart, if you just… studied a little… You'd have better grades, and it wouldn't even be so much of an effort… You really are kind of throwing away this opportunity…"

Matthew's voice trailed off in a whimper, his chest tightening at the recognition of the fury that warped his brother's features.

"Of course," Alfred spat out, gritting his teeth. His hands clenched into fists as his entire body tensed. "Of. Fucking. Course. I don't even know what I was expecting from you. Always Arthur's little bitch, aren't you? For fuck's sake, Matthew! Can't you see he doesn't care for you in the slightest? All that that matters to him is appearance – to be seen as the perfectly proper big brother who takes perfect care of his equally perfectly proper and boring younger brothers. There's nothing deeper behind it! Why are you still snivelling at his feet? It won't change anything. Arthur won't magically start caring for you just because you're an obedient little goody-two-shoes! You'll always be invisible to him, always a second thought!" Alfred gave a violent shake of his head. "By now, you should know that I'm the only one who truly cares for you. Why are you still siding with him?"

Matthew couldn't breathe, Alfred's word pressed against his chest with the weight of a stone. With his head swimming and his racing heartbeat pounding in his ears, Matthew could only look at the utter disgust spelt out in his brother's features.

"And you know what? I'm sick and tired of getting blamed for everything as I wait for you to finally develop some critical thinking skills. You're no better than Arthur, at this point. Don't fucking talk to me until you've got some sense back!"

Alfred jerked up from the bench and walked in swift strides to the road, just in time for the bus to appear from the corner. He got into it without sparing a glance at Matthew, the tight fists around his backpack's strings quivering in rage.

Matthew was paralyzed. Only when the bus driver cast him a questioning glance, he was reminded that he had to get in. He got up on shaky legs and automatically walked to the bus. Somehow, he managed to ignore both the agony raging in his lower abdomen and the tears scorching against his eyelids and offer the driver a shaky smile.

Without meeting anybody's eyes, Matthew found a spare seat and curled into it as he tried to compose himself. No matter how much he forced himself to even out his breathing, however, he couldn't soothe the ache in his chest or in his abdomen. He let his head rest against the window, savouring the feeling of the cool surface against his clammy skin.

 _When did everything start going so wrong?_

In truth, Matthew had a quite precise answer: the downfall had waltzed into their life in worn-out and faded tennis shoes along with Allen and Allyson Jones. Alfred had always had a rebellious streak, but hanging around those twins he had bonded with because they shared the same surname had turned it into a meaner, uncontrolled force that had slowly taken over their lives. Well-meaning and trusting as ever, Alfred hadn't been able to recognize the real malice hiding behind the façade of innocent, misguided teens with a rough past. When Arthur had urged him to be cautious, he had retorted that Allyson and Allen deserved a chance like anybody else. When Matthew had reported that they were vandalising the school properties, scaring and bullying younger teens and smoking weed, Alfred had laughed and told him he shouldn't listen to every rumour that went around, that they were nothing but stereotypes.

The Jones twins must have seen something special in Alfred, something that could be useful to them. They had initially acted tamer around him, only to slowly lead Alfred into the mindset that society and norms were oppressive, that going against them was the only way to truly help people. They had taught him that school didn't matter and that the rules Arthur put in place were only meant to hinder Alfred from letting his true potential shine. And Alfred had swallowed everything, changing bit by bit until he was just a shadow of Matthew's brother.

Eventually, something had happened that had opened Alfred's eyes. Matthew wasn't aware of what had transpired, his brother hadn't confided in him in a long time; all he knew was that Alfred had abruptly cut his ties with Allyson and Allen and hadn't regretted their departure at the end of the summer. For a couple of weeks, Alfred had even been nicer to Matthew, almost back to his old overprotective yet well-meaning personality. Allen and Allyson Jones, however, had left a strong, dark impression that had seeped into Alfred's mind and planted its dark root into his heart. The fights with Arthur had started to burst out again, more violent and frequent than ever.

Now, Matthew considered himself a quite forgiving person. Before casting any judgement, he always did his best to look into other people's motives and try to understand their perspective. He would be able to say without hesitation, however, that he hated Allen and Allyson Jones. The mere recollection of those malicious smirks and those eyes, of such an intense warm shade of brown that they almost looked red, made hot fury surge inside Matthew's chest. Allen and Allyson Jones had ruined his family and his life.

But, more than anything, Matthew was tired of getting caught into the crossfire. He was so tired that his body had started faking illnesses and pains in response. _"There's nothing wrong with him. It's psychosomatic,"_ the doctor had said when Arthur had rushed Matthew to an appointment after four days of unexplained slight fever and stomach-ache _(Matthew had tried to hide it from Arthur. He had done his best, but he hadn't been expert enough to completely cover the signs of his too frequent vomiting and the weakness that accompanied it)_.

At that time, Matthew hadn't known what the word meant, but he could perfectly recall how shame had crawled up his stomach as he lay on the cold bed, under the doctor's unforgiving stare. Later, he had realized why the doctor was judging him so badly: 'psychosomatic' meant 'not real'. It was just Matthew's body being whiny and claiming the attention its owner was so desperately trying not to ask for, knowing just how many more pressing issues Arthur had in his hands. _Selfish._ That was what Matthew's illnesses meant.

Matthew gritted his teeth against another spasm of pain that was shortly followed by a wave of nausea. He refused to let even a moan go past his lips. In spite of the embarrassing display his body was giving, there was still one thing he had control over: his reaction. No matter how bad the pain might get, he wasn't going to add other fuel to the fire.

Matthew's resolve was thoroughly tested during the following hours. Normally, he would feel a bit better once he had left home, but that day, the pain wasn't giving him a single moment of respite. If anything, it seemed to be growing worse. By midday, Matthew could no longer stand straight. He felt like a scorching knifes were embedded into his lower abdomen, twisting at every movement.

Matthew had never blessed so much his being unremarkable, he probably wouldn't have been able to hide his discomfort from anybody truly noticing him. Fortunately, he didn't share any class with Michelle or Emil that day, and Carlos was in Cuba visiting his grandparents. His luck extended to the fact that there wasn't any test, but that was also where it stopped.

Matthew spent the entire lunch break curled up in a bathroom's cubicle, getting rid of bile and doing his best not to bawl from the pain. He was quite sure he had never experienced something like that – and probably, the intense hockey practice he would have to face in the afternoon had something to do with it.

In theory, hockey practice should have been suspended as the coach wouldn't be able to attend, but there was going to be an important match the following week; the team couldn't afford to miss any training. Because of that, Ivan had elected to ignore the rules and follow with the practice even if there wasn't any supervisor. The thought made Matthew's chest tighten. He was uncomfortable with going against the rules, but he had already agreed to it, he couldn't take it back.

 _'You're really trying to give up on me, aren't you?'_ he scolded his body, but he didn't even have the energy to be truly angry anymore. He was just tired.

As he willed his churning stomach to settle down, Matthew let his head rest against the wall. The ceramic tiles felt icy under his skin. Matthew wouldn't have been surprised to find a fever accompanying the general feeling of illness, it wasn't unusual – but there was nothing he could do about it.

Somehow, Matthew found the strength to climb to his feet at the end of the break. With his head swimming and his abdomen screaming in agony, he dragged himself to his afternoon classes.

The following periods passed by in a daze. Matthew was hardly aware of his teacher talking, all he could think about was the pain consuming him. He mentally pleaded for it to stop, tried all the calming techniques he had even vaguely heard of, but to no avail. By the time the bell rang, the agony had only worsened.

Matthew wanted to curl up into a foetal position and sob out all the pain he was feeling. But that meant attracting the attention of the teacher. And feeling sick at school meant being sent to the infirmary. Then, the nurse would have to call Arthur, who would worry to no end. Matthew couldn't forget how exhausted his older brother had looked that morning. He c _ouldn't_ do that to him, not over a fake ailment that shouldn't have been happening in the first place. Matthew just _couldn't._

Mindful of that, he gritted his teeth, forced his body to straighten up ignoring the excruciating stabs of pain and walked with single-minded determination towards the changing room, trying not to pay attention to the way the floor seemed to tilt under his feet.

Fortunately, everybody seemed to be too concerned with the imminent practice to pay attention to the way Matthew wobbled into the changing room, and they were used to him changing inside the bathroom. Matthew didn't like to think about the thin scar marring the left side of his abdomen, nor did he fancy the idea of other people seeing it – mostly, because it meant questions that would make his mind linger on something he only wanted to forget – but, for the first time, he was grateful for its presence.

Matthew had forgotten how many movements were required for an act as simple as changing his trousers, but he almost teared up several times when the agony raging in his lower abdomen increased to the point that it turned his vision grey. None of his teammates was there to witness that, nor did they see the several minutes Matthew needed to rest before he could even attempt straightening up from his crouched position, or how the searing pain when he finally accomplished the task distorted his features in a grimace.

By the time Matthew got out of the bathroom, everybody was already on the move.

"Come on, Matt!" called Mikkel, "On the ice! We need all the training we can get!"

In spite of knowing how important the upcoming match – and, consequently, training for it – was, Matthew found himself mourning the lost opportunity of a missed practice. Writhing in pain on his bed seemed a lot more appealing than a hockey match. At least, skating while slightly doubled over didn't raise any question, and the headgear prevented his teammates from spotting Matthew's pained expression, but that was about where anything positive stopped.

With each movement of his legs, Matthew drove a knife deeper into his abdomen. The searing pain was engulfing all his senses and narrowing his vision, it was all Matthew could think about. Not the game, the puck or the other players. There was only the fire eating him from inside.

Matthew was suddenly torn out of his stupor by a voice that rose above the general buzzing, calling his name in a panicked intonation. He raised his head to see Ivan coming at him at full speed, horror shining in his eyes.

There was no time to move away. Matthew barely managed to duck to his right. For a moment, he thought he had avoided Ivan – then, the end of the stick caught his left side at full force.

An agonizing fire exploded in Matthew's lower abdomen. This time, the boy couldn't restrain the raw scream that was torn from the depths his throat. He had no more control of any of his limbs, he couldn't feel his legs or arms – all he could feel was the agony tearing his gut in half. Perhaps, that was exactly what had happened.

Mercifully, Matthew's senses soon vanished in the black that swallowed his vision.

 **(word count: 4,299)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

Allen and Allyson Jones are 2P America and 2P Nyo America (they won't make any other appearance, they just belong to some key elements of the backstory)  
Michelle is Seychelles  
Carlos is Cuba (actually two years older than Matthew but got held back)  
Emil is Iceland  
Mikkel is Denmark

 **Family situation as explained in _Arthur Kirkland's Guide to Being a Big Brother:_** **  
**Arthur is Alfred and Matthew's stepbrother. His father died when he was 2, and, years later, his mother moved to America and married Alfred and Matthew's father, who was already taking care of Alfred.  
Arthur also has 3 much older brothers, but they never moved to America (or bonded much with their new family) as they were already of age when their mother remarried.  
Alfred and Matthew's parents divorced before Matthew was born. Matthew stayed with their mother in Canada (and took her surname, too).  
When Matthew was 8, his mother died in a car crash and he went to live with the rest of his family in America.  
(Following the same car crash, Matthew got his spleen removed because it had been ruptured by a broken rib.)  
When Arthur was 18, their parents died and he got custody of Alfred and Matthew.  
If you have any question, don't hesitate asking!

English isn't my first language. I'm doing my best, but it's likely I've still made some mistakes or wrote oddly-phrased sentences. I apologize for this!

(On a side note, please keep in mind that the story is filtered through Matthew's POV, and he has quite a skewed view of what 'psychosomatic' truly means.)

I have tried to start this story with a different approach: shorter but more frequent chapter. (Let's see how long before I turn back to my regular 10k words chapter, lol). For now, I'll try to post a chapter about every week/ten days, but I also have another story I'm working on so I'll have to juggle with that one as well.

If you want to have any further update, you can find me on tumblr! The username is feynavaley, and anything relevant to my fics is tagged 'about feyna's writing'.

Until next time! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes** **:** Thank you so much for the reception of the first chapter. I am immensely grateful for your kind words and support :)

 **Warnings:** I have to stress that I am not a medical professional, and research for a story does not replace that. I apologize for any mistake.  
Once again, there are also some intentional misconceptions due to the third-person limited POV and the fact that the narrators are teens with a very nebulous idea of what they're talking about.

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well! And reviews are always extremely welcome :)

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The mattress under Matthew's body was oddly hard. Something cold was pressed against his back and seeped into his pyjama top in wet, unpleasant patches.

 _Is this a joke from Al?_

Matthew whimpered, tossing his head to a side. He was surprised to find a gloved hand touching his face. And, along with the hand, came a concerned voice that slowly started making sense above the ringing in his ears.

"Matthew? Matthew, can you hear me? Come on, Matthew…"

"Oh my God, he's not dead. Oh, thank goodness."

Matthew's hazy brain finally recognized the first voice as belonging to Tolys.

 _What the…_

He pried his eyes open. After a couple of blinks, the array of helmet-cased faces hovering over him lost its blurred edges. The closest one was Tolys, with terror glimmering in his eyes and his brow furrowed in concern.

"Am I dreaming?" Matthew wondered out loud in a weak voice, voicing the only explanation that could excuse the presence of his teammates around his bed.

"Man, he's fucking delusional. For God's sake, somebody needs to call an ambulance. I don't care if we get in trouble, there's something _wrong_ with him!"

At Mikkel's ominous words, the memories slammed against Matthew with the force of the waterfall. He gasped, his eyes widening as he tried to jerk up. Tolys's hands pressed against his shoulders, holding him in place.

"Matthew! Don't to get up! You fainted like that, you might be seriously hurt…"

Matthew shook his head. Tolys's plea had suddenly made him aware of an uncomfortable throbbing in his lower abdomen, but it was nothing compared to the searing agony he remembered. It didn't feel any worse than a painful bruise.

"N—no, I'm fine. Really, I am. There's nothing wrong with me."

Matthew pushed Tolys's hands away and sat up, schooling his features in determination as he looked at the boys surrounding him.

"Man, you just fainted," Mikkel noted at his lefts, shifting on his skates. "This isn't exactly the definition of 'fine'."

Before Matthew could even open his mouth to protest, Ivan's voice followed Mikkel's one.

"He's right, Matthew. And I am so sorry… I didn't mean to hit you that hard, I thought you would move away."

Ivan was the only one standing a bit to the side, closer to the edge of the rink. He had taken off his helmet, putting on display his features, soft with regret. A hot wave of shame crept up over Matthew.

"It's fine," he murmured with a small shake of his head, "It's my fault, I should have paid more attention. I was just… I hadn't had lunch and I was feeling quite dizzy. You didn't even hit me that hard, really, it's nothing!"

The abated pain was undeniable proof of Matthew's words. It was almost as if his entire body had needed a complete shut-down to rewire and start behaving normally again, without faking any pain. Matthew couldn't believe he had been so pathetic…

"You did look a bit off the game when you got on the ice," Lukas mused.

"But you still fainted," Tolys remarked. In spite of having straightened up to give Matthew some space, he was still kneeling next to him, his hands hovering close as if ready to catch him. "This isn't something to take lightly, you really need to get checked up…"

Several people nodded. Panic rose from Matthew's chest to his throat, squeezing it an iron grip. An ambulance would mean being taken to the hospital, where his guardian would have to be notified.

 _Arthur._

The thought of his brother's name brought along the recollection of his hollow face, of the exhaustion ebbing the light in his eyes. Arthur would be beside himself with concern, and it was the last thing he needed. Not over something so stupid that entirely depended on Matthew being a whiny kid who couldn't control himself, especially.

He looked around, desperately trying to spot somebody who could support his cause… and with sudden clarity, the solution sparked inside his brain.

"Vasovagal syncope," he blurted out.

The expressions around him shifted from concern to confusion.

"Vaso— what?" Mikkel voiced out the shared question.

"Vasovagal syncope. It's a nervous response that makes your blood pressure suddenly drop, and you faint. It can be triggered by many things… sudden pain being one of them. It doesn't even need to be such a severe pain, it just…" Matthew shrugged, struggling to keep his head high. The embarrassment wasn't feigned, only the cause was. "It first happened after I twisted my ankle, and I just… passed out right there and then, without any warning. Arthur got a huge scare and brought me to the ER, but the doctor said it was that. Nothing serious. But, he also said it might happen again."

At least, that was what Matthew had understood form Felicia's explanation, who was the one who had fainted after twisting her ankle the previous spring. Matthew should probably feel bad. He remembered the concern clawing at his insides as he stared at Felicia's unnaturally wan face, how an even more intense reflection of his own emotions had been echoed in Lovino's features… in the end, the accident had cast a gloomy shadow over everybody's day. At the moment, however, all Matthew could feel was mind-numbing gratitude for the perfect excuse it had offered him.

"Oh, I think I've heard of that!" Eduard commented with a nod.

"Is it truly nothing serious, then?" Ivan asked, a timid glimmer of hope gleaming in his violet eyes and softening his features.

Matthew nodded and offered his teammates the most confident smile he could muster.

"Yeah. Just a stupid nervous reaction. I mean, it did hurt, but not to the point of something serious. I just feel a bit sore, now, but I'm fine. I'm really sorry for making you worry like that…"

"The way you cried, though…" Mikkel muttered with a shake of his head, but Matthew could read the doubt in his features, just like he could clearly see how relief was starting to wash away the tension from many faces around him.

He knew he had them. He cracked a small, sheepish grin and ran a hand through his hair.

"That doesn't mean it's bad. Don't you cry when you stub your toe, too? Besides, I think it was mostly the surprise. There's no need to call an ambulance over something like this, really. We can just keep practising, no need to waste time over this. I'm fine."

To offer a concrete proof of his words, Matthew rose to his feet. His abdomen answered with a spike of pain, but it was bearable and soon faded to a dull throbbing.

Tolys stood up next to him.

"I really think you should get checked up," he muttered, but his voice lacked resolution.

The team was using the ice rink without the coach being present, which was a clean break of the safety rules. If something happened, there was a high chance of everybody getting in trouble, and the consequences would be even more severe for the seniors.

"I'm fine," Matthew reassured for the umpteenth time.

"Okay, we won't call an ambulance," Ivan decided, "But you aren't getting back on the rink, Matthew. You still got hurt, and your head just isn't in the game. You should just get a shower and go home, or you can stay and watch the rest of the practice, if you want. Just, no more playing."

Matthew answered with an eager nod. Even the twinge of shame at the reproach couldn't curb the relief that flooded him, washing away the tension. While not in severe pain anymore, he was thoroughly exhausted; his limbs felt heavy and he was lightheaded and sluggish from the prolonged lack of food. For once, he didn't mind not playing.

"At least let me check your stomach," Tolys pleaded as he followed Matthew out of the rink.

"It's fine!" Matthew hissed, wrapping his arms around himself.

Tolys froze. At the stricken expression that warped his features, a pang of guilt twisted Matthew's stomach, but he bit down the urge to apologize. The outburst had served its purpose, reminding Tolys of the reason Matthew didn't like people seeing his naked torso. Tolys didn't insist anymore, he was silent and expressionless as he followed Matthew to the changing room.

Matthew was aware that Tolys was more stubborn than people gave him credit for. He wasn't surprised when, upon getting out of the shower, he caught him typing on the phone, with his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Matthew could bet the recipient of the message was Alfred.

He smiled inwardly. He was privy of a piece of information Tolys must have missed: after the last argument, Arthur had taken away Alfred's phone and turned it off. Neither Alfred nor Arthur were going to know anything about the embarrassing episode for at least a couple of days. By then, Matthew would have been able to tell his own version and find a way to prevent them from worrying.

When Tolys went back to the team to join the training, Matthew climbed up on the bleachers, where he spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between doing his homework and catching glimpses of the team. For how much he regretted not taking part in the practice, seeing his teammates' undeniable competence quelled down Matthew's concerns and let him able to relax a bit. The match was going to be hard, but they would make a worthy opponent. In spite of Matthew's mishaps, there was one part of his life that wasn't in shambles yet.

At the end of the afternoon, the dull throbbing in Matthew's abdomen had increased – but he had taken a hockey stick wielded by Ivan to the stomach, after all. The bruise was probably quite deep, Matthew should have expected it to give him some trouble. Besides, hurting more some hours after having been inflicted was normal for a bad bruise, and it wasn't unbearable, yet. Could real pain be the answer Matthew needed to get rid of the shameful fake ones that often plagued him? It sounded odd, but worth investigating further.

Or maybe, not even that episode had been enough to let Matthew get a grip of himself. By the time he was in front of his house, the pain had increased to a bothersome level and he was feeling nauseous again. He wasn't sure he would be able to eat supper, and that was shaping up to be a problem with the antibiotic… missing three times in a row was starting to look a bit too daring, even for Matthew's standards. Matthew's stomach dropped at the mere thought, but he knew that he had no alternative: he was going to have to tell Arthur.

He was still mulling over the best way to present the issue without making it sound too concerning when he opened the front door.

He wasn't prepared for the tornado that hit him.

Matthew froze, paralyzed by the screams. He had forgotten that Alfred would be home, and, from the sound of it, something had sparked a big argument.

Matthew took a deep breath, trying to gather the strength to cross the doorway and dive into the storm. His stomach coiled painfully on itself, begging for him to double over.

Matthew knew what he had to do. He should walk past the living room, ignore everything and take refuge into the bedroom, where he could curl on the bed and drown out the sounds with a pair of earbuds and some music. He couldn't stop his brain from decoding the sounds into words as he walked past the living room, however.

"—Why can't you just accept that this isn't what I want to do, Arthur? Why can't you? I know that I could get good grades and go to university and everything, I know that I'm good enough, but maybe, I just don't _want_ to! I don't want to waste the best years of my life getting stale as I sit at a desk, accomplishing nothing!"

"Alfred, that's not—"

"I want to get out in the open, to do something that _matters_! School doesn't. I'll become a football player, I love doing it, and then I'll be an inspiration to countless children. I'll also be rich, do you know how many people I'll be able to help, then? And I'll be doing all that using my own money the way I want, nobody will be able to tell me where to stop and what to do! And what does studying matter, in all this? Not. A. Fucking. Thing. I don't have to do school! Just let me go on with my life and play, I'll show you what I can do!"

Matthew knew that he shouldn't have, but his curiosity got the best of him. He peeked into the living room just in time to see Arthur slam Alfred's binder against the table in frustration.

"Goddamnit Alfred, why can't you use your brain and _think_ , for once? Can't you see how many holes are in your plan? You're gifted with a great intelligence, just _use_ it! What if it all goes wrong? If you don't become famous as a football player, you'll be left with nothing! If you just studied, you—"

Alfred stomped his feet, his clenched fists quivering.

"That's why I need to train! If I train, I'll be good enough to get taken into a famous team, and you know it far too well! But nooo, you can't accept that anybody would choose anything different than a boring, mundane job, so you raise all this Hell over missing a couple of days of school for a football camp!"

"If your grades—"

"Some teammates of mine have far worse grades, but I don't see any of their parents complaining! They're _all_ going, this isn't the issue! The issue is that you have to decide what I can do with my life, and I'm tired of it, do you hear me?! I'm sick and tired of this!"

Matthew wasn't unfamiliar with his brother being angry. He had already seen his red face, his chest heaving for breath. What he had never seen, however, was the unabated hate shining darkly in his eyes, the cruel sneer distorting his features. Matthew found himself paralyzed, the breath blocked in his chest.

"You're not my father, Arthur! You'll never be. You aren't even my real brother, you're just my stepbrother! You're _nothing_ to me! What right do you have to have any say in my life? None. You have no right! You're just pretending to be my father, and doing quite a shitty job at it! Aunt Marianne was right. We should have never stayed with you!"

Arthur didn't stop Alfred when he whirled around and stomped away, bristling with rage. His face was milky white, his eyes wide and heartbroken.

Matthew instinctively took a step back as Alfred walked past him without acknowledging his presence, but he couldn't take his eyes away from Arthur's grief-stricken face. The wrongness of the entire vision felt like being stomped on the chest. His head was spinning, he wanted to be sick.

When Arthur turned, exhaling a shuddering breath that sounded painfully similar to a sob, Matthew wasn't quick enough to pretend he hadn't listened.

"Oh! Matthew."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair in a feeble attempt at pretending confidence. Matthew couldn't miss the way his arm was shaking slightly, making his own stomach knot in turn.

"I'm sorry you had to listen to this. But don't worry, all right? Your brother is just… going through a rough patch. He'll come around, with time."

Arthur's shaky smile was as fake as his words.

Matthew wanted to scream. It had been _months_ , when would Alfred 'come around'? Never, if something didn't change drastically. Matthew wanted to shake Arthur until he admitted it, but it wasn't Arthur's fault. In truth, he was suffering even more than Matthew himself.

He fought back the urge to burst into tears and answered with a nod.

"Y—yeah. He will. Soon, I hope."

"So do I." Arthur's tired smile and grey skin spelt out all his exhaustion even louder than his words did. "But never mind him, how was your day? Ready for your big match?"

In spite of all the concern weighting on his shoulders, Arthur had remembered that Matthew had an important hockey match. _How_ could Matthew be okay with worrying him even further?

He forced himself to ignore the painful stabs to his stomach and nod. He almost felt like a wooden puppet who could only perform a single movement, with all that nodding against his stiff muscles.

"We're doing great!" The enthusiasm he tried to inject into his words sounded fake, too weak. "But it was quite tiring. I… if it's all right, I'll just take my antibiotic and go to bed. It's already half past seven, and I don't need to have dinner, Iryna brought a cake to cheer us up…"

Guilt churned in Matthew's stomach for the lie, increasing the pain to an almost unbearable level, but the genuine tenderness in Arthur's tired eyes made it worth it.

"All right. Just _do_ remember to take your antibiotic, poppet. And get some rest, you've been working hard. You deserve it."

Matthew hesitated a moment at the door, fidgeting on his feet.

"I love you, Arthur," he whispered in the end, then swiftly walked away without waiting for an answer.

He _did_ love Arthur, that much was true. But he also loved Alfred just as much. Why couldn't they all just get along?

To make matters worse, the scorching stabs of pain to his stomach were increasing in frequency; Matthew was clammy and lightheaded. Once again, his stupid body rebelling against the stressful situation. He could barely change into his pyjamas and dive under the pile of blankets before he needed to curl up on himself. He hugged his stomach, trying to breathe through the increasing bursts of agony.

Matthew felt like crying. He was tired of the fighting, of how mean Alfred always was to Arthur.

Alfred was so sure that he had everything figured out, but in truth, he didn't know anything. Matthew almost wanted to laugh at the notion that he would have been better off with Tante Marianne. Maybe, Alfred should have taken a moment to wonder why their cousin Francis, in spite of loving his birth country, had almost run away from France just after becoming of age. Alfred hardly knew Marianne and Pierre at all, unlike Matthew. Matthew was aware that Oncle Pierre's high-salary and prestigious job meant he spent most of his time travelling around the world, leaving his son's upbringing completely in his wife's hands. Matthew had also seen the way his sophisticated and charming Tante Marianne used to treat Francis. No more than an accessory, a pretty doll to display proudly. Alfred wouldn't have lasted a week before smuggling himself back to America and to Arthur, Matthew was sure of that.

At the same time, it was also true that Arthur was often too hard with Alfred, too rigid to find a middle ground. Matthew knew that Arthur was very young and just trying his best, and he didn't blame him for it. That didn't stop him from wishing Arthur would let go of his pride and admit he couldn't do everything on his own. Alfred generally listened to Francis, for example, but Arthur was always too reluctant to enlist his help.

And Matthew was too damn coward to let his voice be heard and suggest a solution, and he ended up dealing with a body that was just as much coward and pathetically needy. Served him right.

In addition to the searing pain, a spell of cold had taken Matthew into its grip and seeped into his bones, making him shiver incessantly. He could only curl up tighter on himself and pray to fall asleep, but the knives twisting in his abdomen kept bringing him back to the brink of consciousness.

Sometime later, the door was slammed open and heavy steps preceded the thump of Alfred's body flopping down on his own mattress and the frame creaking under the weight. He didn't offer a single word to Matthew.

The fire raging in Matthew's stomach grew, paralyzing him in a haze of agony. It only got worse as the hours went by.

* * *

Alfred had always needed less sleep than a common person. Therefore, if Arthur forced him to go to bed at eleven, Alfred would be awake by four the following morning. That was just how it worked. His father had understood it perfectly, but Arthur just didn't seem to be able to wrap his mind around it. Alfred could have lingered in bed for another couple of hours, but he didn't want to give Arthur the satisfaction. The exact moment his eyes snapped open, he got up and moved to the living room.

Arthur had taken away his phone, his laptop, the PS4, and gotten as far as unplugging the TV and taking one of the cables into his own room the previous evening, but that didn't mean Alfred was going to cave in and waste time doing homework. Instead, he flopped down on the sofa with a sandwich in his right hand and a book in the other.

Arthur hadn't even forbidden him to read, after all. Alfred couldn't wait to see the livid face when his older stepbrother would realize he had been, once again, outsmarted.

About two hours and a half later, the shuffled footsteps heading towards the living room made Alfred's nerves tighten with tension, his blood sing at the prospect of a fight.

The steps halted at the door.

Alfred tensed on the sofa, waiting for the scolding.

Only a soft sight came. A moment later, the steps retreated from the living room.

Alfred raised his head just in time to see Arthur's frame disappear into the kitchen. He couldn't believe there had been no protest.

 _I finally showed him who's the boss around._

Alfred wanted to believe that, in spite of the corner of his mind that made him notice how Arthur's shoulders were hunched over in exhaustion, even if it was just the beginning of the day. He was most likely just too drained to pick a fight. Alfred swallowed down the small trickle of guilt generated by the thought and forcefully directed his concentration back to the book in his hands, a collection of Asimov's works.

Alfred had picked it only because it was the one closest to him, finding himself quite engrossed in it had been a pleasant surprise. Asimov was an excellent writer, just like Matthew had told him many times. Alfred made a mental note to thank his younger brother.

A moment later, he recalled that they weren't on speaking terms.

This time, the twinge of guilt that gripped his stomach was more intense.

Matthew was always siding with Arthur, that much was true, and it irritated Alfred to no end. At the same time, Matthew was also merely fourteen years old. No more than a kid. A kid who had had to deal with a childhood of emotional neglect (now that he was older, Alfred was sure that he could give that name to their natural mother's unintentional – but not less damaging – treatment of Matthew), precarious health, and loss. Moreover, Matthew had never connected with Arthur as smoothly as Alfred had used to, it was only natural for him to try and gather some crumbles of affection. No matter how much Alfred didn't like it. Of course, the issue would be completely solved if Matthew started realizing that _Alfred_ was the only older person he could truly rely on – but, admittedly, Alfred snapping at him wasn't going to help with that.

Alfred squashed down the guilt with a resolution to be more patient with his younger brother, and he focused again on the fictional story to prevent his brain from formulating other disturbing thoughts. Arthur's voice calling his name some time later caught him by surprise, violently jerking him back to reality.

"What?" he asked, not having quite had the time to harden his voice.

For once, Arthur didn't seem intentioned to scold him. He was just standing at the door, bundled in a trench coat and with violet shadows painfully evident under his eyes, so tired-looking that the normally vibrant green looked dull.

"I have to go out now, I have a meeting for a group project."

"It's a quarter past seven, but I have to be at the campus by eight," he added in answer to Alfred's visible confusion.

Alfred forced his features to toughen in indifference.

"Fine. We won't die by staying alone for just a couple of hours, no need to fret."

A weary sigh seeped through Arthur's lips.

"That's not… I know you're old enough to take care of yourself. I just wanted to ask you to wake Matthew up at half past seven, he looked quite exhausted yesterday. I'm not sure he would wake up on his own."

Alfred internally rolled his eyes. He agreed on Arthur's estimation of Matthew's energies, and that was exactly why he wasn't going to carry out the request. It was Saturday, Matthew definitely deserved a morning of rest. Alfred couldn't believe that Arthur had never noticed how frazzled their little brother looked, how he was threatening to fall apart under all the responsibilities and expectations Arthur kept piling up on his shoulders. _(The fact that Alfred shared the bedroom with Matthew and, because of that, saw him in his most vulnerable moments, didn't matter. Arthur should have noticed.)_ Another reason why Arthur was a far cry from an adequate caretaker.

"Yeah, sure," Alfred answered anyway, shrugging. For the time being, he was more eager to see how the book ended than to get into a fight.

"This is important, Alfred. Please don't—"

"I said I'll do it! Stop treating me like a toddler!"

Arthur sighed again – a soft, weary sound that made Alfred's nerves tremble with disdain.

"I trust you with this, then," Arthur said immediately after, much to Alfred's surprise. "I probably won't be home before eleven or so."

With that, Arthur turned and walked away from the living room.

Alfred stared at his back for a moment before shaking himself. Arthur being so accommodating had surprised him, but he didn't want to dwell on that _(on how much of it was caused by Arthur being so exhausted that he could afford to spare energy only for immediately pressing matters)_. He went back to reading his book, letting the words take him by hand and lead him away from reality and to a soothing yet exciting world that kept Alfred in its clutches for so long that he was barely aware of the way the minutes bled into hours.

When the door creaked open, Alfred took conscience of how much time had passed with a twinge of surprise. He had barely moved from his position.

"Alfred!" Arthur called from the doorway, "Did you wake up Matthew?"

Alfred's stomach summersaulted at the realization. He had been intentioned to wake up his brother before Arthur came home, somewhere around ten, but it had completely slipped out of his mind. Now, he could only own up to it.

Squaring his shoulders, Alfred took a deep breath to steady himself and got up.

"No, I didn't," he said with confidence as he walked the length of the corridor towards Arthur.

A dismayed grimace crossed Arthur's features.

"What do you mean you didn't? Alfred, I—"

"For God's sake, give the kid a rest, will you? He has been running himself ragged since he began high school, can't you see it? It's Saturday, he deserves to sleep in for once in his life!"

Arthur didn't seem moved. On the contrary, his feature tightened in annoyance before he ran a hand through his hair, huffing.

"And, pray tell, when exactly did I say that you needed to make him _get up_ at half past seven? You just needed to wake him up, he could go back to sleep afterwards. In fact, I would have encouraged so."

Arthur's words didn't make any sense. Alfred's features must have shown his puzzlement, because Arthur rolled his eyes and emitted an exasperated sigh.

"The antibiotic, Alfred," he explained in a clipped voice, "The prophylactic dose of antibiotic your brother has to take every twelve hours since his spleen has been removed and, with his immune system weaker to begin with, he risks getting mortally ill and dying."

Alfred stared at his stepbrother, his mouth agape and his eyes wide open. Hot shame crawled up his stomach.

"But I guess this was less important than your rebellious spirit, wasn't it?" Arthur's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I see it now. Your little brother's life is less important than a childish tantrum. I thought you were more mature than this, at least, but I see that I was severely mistaken…"

Arthur's words stung worse than a physical slap could have. Alfred wanted to scream that he hadn't wanted that, he wanted to be angry at Arthur – and, at the same time, he couldn't believe he had missed something so vital.

Arthur trying to walk past him brought him back to his senses. His hand automatically shot out to grab his stepbrother's arm.

"Where are you going?"

Alfred failed to hide a slight trembling in his voice.

Arthur's forehead was creased in anger, but the shadows under his eyes made him look more dejected than annoyed.

"Where do you think I'm going? I need to wake up Matthew, it has already been more than three hours…"

Arthur tried to swag Alfred's hand away, but he didn't budge.

"I'll go wake up Matthew."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, a spark of anger surging in his eyes, but Alfred was quicker.

"Listen. I fucked up, I know. And I'm sorry, okay?" The admission was like acid in Alfred's mouth, but he knew that it was needed, if he wanted to prove to Arthur that he was mature enough. "But, if you go to wake up Matthew like that, he'll see how much you're stressing over this and he'll read it as you being angry at him. He'll just feel guilty and awful and it will add more stress. So, let me do this."

Alfred couldn't help the contempt from seeping into his voice at the end of the speech. He hadn't exactly _meant_ to do that, but he knew that he was right.

Arthur seemed to recognize the truth in Alfred's words as well. He sagged in his grip and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he talked, his voice was once again controlled.

"All right. Just be kind to him."

Alfred ignored the bitterness in Arthur's last remark as he turned and walked away. He wanted to retort that _he_ was always nice to Matthew, that he wasn't the one stressing their younger brother, but a rational corner of his brain couldn't help but whisper maliciously that Arthur _did_ have a point. And, for how much Alfred claimed he was taking care of Matthew better than Arthur, _he_ was the one who had forgotten such a vital issue.

The admission only made anger boil hotter in his chest. He gritted his teeth and kept clenching and unclenching his fists as he quickened his pace, but he couldn't get rid of that feeling unpleasantly clawing at his insides.

 _If Matthew sees me like this, he'll be even more stressed._

Sobered up by the realization, Alfred waited a couple of moments in front of the bedroom's door, forcing himself to take deep breaths until his heartbeat slowed down. Only then, he opened the door and stepped in silently.

The sight of the lump of blankets that hid his brother's frame brought a smile to Alfred's face from the sheer cuteness of it.

His lips straightened into a thin line the moment he realized that the lump was trembling.

 _Is he having a nightmare?_

"Mattie, wake up."

Alfred swiftly strode to his brother, a pang of concern surging in his stomach when no answer met his words.

"Mattie?"

Alfred placed a knee on his brother's mattress and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

"Come on, Mattie, wake up. It's all right, you're probably just having a bad dream."

A broken sound between a sob and a whimper was the only answer.

Frowning, Alfred peeled the blankets away from Matthew's face as he hunched over him to have a better look.

His heart missed a beat.

Matthew's face was stark white, the delicate features tightened in unmistakable agony. His breaths were ragged and uneven, seeping out of his bloodless lips in a broken, rushed symphony.

"Matthew!"

There was no reaction to Alfred's panicked voice. With his pulse racing, he tore off the blankets to find his little brother huddled on himself, with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms tightly wrapped around his abdomen, the knuckles gripping his pyjama top white.

"Mattie, what's wrong?" Alfred pleaded, "Come on, Mattie, talk to me!"

His shaking hands found a grip around his brother's shoulders to turn him over and allow Alfred to have a better look.

Matthew moaned at the movement, his ragged breaths quickening. Then, Alfred tried to uncurl Matthew's legs – and an inhuman, agonized shriek erupted from his throat.

Alfred jumped away as if he had been scalded, avoiding just in time to get in the way of Matthew vomiting over the edge of the bed. The blood pounding in his ears obscured his vision for a moment.

 _I'm only three hours late. Only three hours, it can't be…_

But Matthew was curled up on himself on the edge of the bed, at that point earnestly sobbing, with the sheets around him soiled with vomit.

Alfred ignored the smell and sprang to his brother's side, scolding himself for that moment of hesitation.

"Matthew. Matthew, come on, tell me what's wrong!"

He hated himself for how shaky his voice came out, closer to a plea than an order, but at that point, Alfred could hardly think straight. The fingers tapping his brother's clammy cheek were singed by the prickling heat of a raging fever.

 _Three hours._

Such a short amount of time, but it had been enough. Something was so horribly _wrong_ with Matthew, his waxen features were contorted in agony, the breaths coming out of his lips harsh and ragged, as if he wasn't getting enough air.

Alfred _knew_ that he had to do something, but the terror that had flooded his entire being was acting as a barrier between his brain and any rational thought. All he could do was to take his brother's clammy face into his hands, stare into his glassy and unseeing eyes as he pleaded in a shaky voice for him to answer, but even the slurred words that finally came out of Matthew's lips were covered by the roar in Alfred's own ears.

Alfred was abruptly brought back to reality when the door slammed open.

He instinctively whirled around, his widened eyes meeting a pair of equally scared green ones. Finally, Alfred's brain registered that the sounds he had been ignoring at the corners of his perceptions were Arthur's yelling for an answer and his footsteps rushing closer. He had to have heard Matthew's wail, the entire street probably had.

At that moment, no sight was more welcome than Arthur's face, the concern shining in his features already dimming as they hardened in determination. The argument that had occurred only some moments earlier seemed to belong to a different lifetime.

"Arthur." Alfred's voice was nothing but a weak, trembling plead. "Arthur, there's something really wrong with Matthew. Please, help!"

Alfred swiftly moved to a side to leave his older brother some space to examine Matthew, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy's unnaturally pale face.

Alfred prided himself in being mature and independent, but Arthur was the one who had always had Matthew's health in mind. Arthur was the one who took the child's hands into his own, who ran his fingers through the blond hair as he called Matthew's name, somehow managing to keep his voice firm.

Alfred could just stand there, paralyzed, as all his world crumbled around him, every detail in front his eyes screaming how wrong he had been.

* * *

All Matthew knew was agony. A knife was tearing him apart from the inside, stabbing repeatedly and twisting, acid was eating him up.

Matthew wanted to call for help, but the pain squeezed his lungs, he could only sob.

Then, he wasn't alone anymore. There were hands on his face, fingers threading through his hair. Voices around him.

"…Mattie, please, Mattie…"

"…phone first. Get me the phone. And then a thermometer, quick!"

Matthew confused brain recognized them as belonging to his older brothers, even if most of the words were too far away for him to comprehend them, muffled by a sea of pain.

He wanted to cry in relief and to plead them to make the pain _stop_.

But, at the same time, Arthur's rough fingers against his neck brought with them the faint recollection of other fingers, slender and clammy with sweat, that had lingered on Matthew's neck on a summer's afternoon, when he was kneeling in front of a trashcan at the park.

Arthur's tender voice morphed into a higher, feminine timbre that sent shivers running down Matthew's back. He could still feel Allyson's hot breath blowing against his neck.

 _"Oh, what do we have here, Mattie? An upset tummy because your big brothers are fighting? You know what this means, Mattie **-** kins? That we're just the same, you and I. You're trying to be a little goody-two-shoes, but your body is complaining because it wants to get Big Brother's attention. Embrace it, Mattie-kins. No matter what you pretend, you're just a little attention whore."_

Allyson's words had been with Matthew since them, carefully tucked into a corner of his mind. His greatest fear and his greatest push. He had done everything he could to prove Allyson wrong, he had always done his best to hide the pain and not let his true nature out in the open.

And now, it was all gone. Matthew's body, his instincts, everything pleaded for his brothers' help, their voices and touches brought small seeds of comfort through the haze of agony. Matthew wanted to cling to them.

But the recollection of Allyson's mocking laugh rose above everything else, drowning all of Matthew's perceptions. He had finally lost the battle with his body, and this time, he was the one who had ruined everything for his family.

 **(word count: 6,494 words)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

Mikkel is Denmark  
Lukas is Norway  
Felicia is Nyo!Italy  
Iryna is Ukraine  
Allyson is 2p Nyo America

I won't bore you with the details of my reasoning concerning Matthew's conditions, but if you want to know something more, you can PM me or hit me up on tumblr! (the username is feynavaley). Always on tumblr, you can find eventual news regarding the following chapters and my writing in general.

It will be more than five days before the next chapter, but I'll try not to make the gap too long. Until next time :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes** **:** This took far longer than I thought it would. Unfortunately, real life really got in the way. And, as I was predicting, I'm back to monster-length chapters, haha. Still, thanks a lot for the support, it really helps the motivation in spite of all the real-life duties. :)

 **Warnings:** Once again, I have to stress that I'm not a medical professional and some research does not replace it. I apologize for any mistake.  
Moreover, you will find some intentional misconceptions due to the narrators' own biases.

That said, I really hope the wait was worth it and you'll enjoy the chapter. And if you can, please review! It would be very appreciated :)

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Alfred couldn't move. He knew that he should do something – _anything –_ to help and ease his little brother's suffering, but he didn't know _what_. All he could focus on was Matthew's wan face, the way his features were contorted in agony. His lips were moving among the sobs, but the words were drowned by the ringing in Alfred's ears, so loud that he couldn't even hear his own thoughts.

Arthur's voice was the only thing able to pierce through the mud that enveloped Alfred's brain. _"Bring me a phone and the thermometer,"_ he had ordered, his tone so firm and determined that Alfred wasn't left with the opportunity of formulating his own opinion – he could do nothing but obey.

Alfred didn't know how Arthur could do that. Desperation and concern were etched in the lines around his eyes, there was a slight tremble in the fingers moving around Matthew's frame – but every action they performed was purposeful and confident. Somehow, Arthur had managed to swallow down his panic in order to help Matthew at the best of his abilities, and, instead of shaking and crying, he was talking to a first responder. He didn't let the slight wavering of his voice tamper with the clarity of his words.

Alfred should have been able to carry out the task himself: he was the one who had found Matthew, he should be perfectly able to report how his little brother was curled up on himself and in visible agony, awake but not coherent – yet, it had taken him some minutes only to make his tongue connect with his brain and explain what had prompted the scream that had summoned Arthur. He had stumbled over the words, everything feeling hazy and distant. Only Arthur's oddly soothing voice and direct questions had helped him go on.

When the thermometer finally beeped, lighting in red with the worst answer Alfred could have ever imagined, he felt his legs go weak. He stumbled back, the horror flooding his body making his limbs useless. His eyes were stuck on the numbers on the screen.

 _105.98_

Alfred was sure he had never even _heard_ of such a bad fever, and he didn't have the slightest idea of how to deal with it. A high-pitched wail went past his lips. His brain was buzzing with suggestions – _a wet cloth might help, maybe an ice pack, or even alcohol instead of water, somebody had told him it worked better…_ – but he couldn't bring his body to move.

Alfred wrenched his eyes away from Matthew's face – _from the thermometer_ – only for them to fall on his brother's right hand. It had been pulled away from his abdomen and had now taken a spasmodic grip over the sheets, twitching unnaturally with each sob. And, while Alfred was ensnared by the sight, Arthur reported the thermometer's reading at the phone without missing a beat.

A corner of Alfred's brain wanted to believe that Arthur was so collected because he didn't care as much as Alfred did. That Alfred's inefficiency wasn't a fault of his, rather, another proof of the fact he cared for Matthew more than Arthur did or had ever done. At the same time, Alfred couldn't help but notice the tight lines around Arthur's eyes, the glimmer of barely concealed panic in them.

Arthur was just as terrified as Alfred was. Unlike him, however, he was keeping his cool, because that was what Matthew needed.

Alfred was aware of that, but he still couldn't bring himself to move. His eyes kept darting back and forth between Matthew's contorted face and his hand. It was such a jarring sight… such a strong – _desperate_ – grip was unnatural for Matthew's hand, the same hand that Alfred always saw handle any object with utmost care…

Arthur ending the call and dropping the phone shook Alfred out of the daze.

"What did they…" he started asking immediately, but he found the end of the question blocked in his throat.

Arthur understood anyway. Without turning towards Alfred, with his now free hands cupping Matthew's face and his thumb caressing his cheek to dry away the tears, he took a deep breath.

"An ambulance is coming. We're lucky, one had already been dispatched in this area but it turned out it wasn't needed…"

Arthur didn't tell Alfred what the first responder had commented about Matthew's conditions, or if anything had been said at all.

If he was honest with himself, Alfred might have not wanted to know.

Besides, Arthur didn't have the time to address Alfred's concerns. Matthew had started whimpering in broken, unintelligible French – each word felt like a pointy dart hitting Alfred's chest – and Arthur had completely diverted his attention towards that, trying to console their younger brother with encouraging, soothing words.

Alfred didn't like the edge of desperation tainting the forcefully calm voice. He liked even less the pain marking Matthew's face, the way each intake of breath rattled in his chest and sounded like the hardest task given to mankind. Almost as if it was going to be the last one.

The thought hit Alfred with the force of a train, making his head spin and his stomach coil painfully. A strangled whimper bubbled up his throat. He wanted to help Arthur in calming down Matthew, but his legs seemed made of stone, so heavy that they were stuck to the floor.

The sudden ring of the doorbell made Alfred jump out of his skin with a yelp.

Arthur's head snapped up as well, his entire body tensing. He contemplated Alfred for a fraction of a second, then his teeth sank into his lower lip.

"Stay with him. I'll be back in a moment," he ordered as he stood up from the bed, rushing towards the door before he had even finished talking.

By the time Alfred's brain had managed to register the meaning of Arthur's words, his brother's steps were already thumping down the wooden stairs.

And Matthew was alone, curled up on a bed soiled with his own vomit. Was it Alfred's imagination, or had he curled up even tighter on himself? Maybe, it was just the absence of somebody else on the edge of the bed that made it look even bigger, dwarfing Matthew's frame.

 _And Alfred was leaving Matthew alone._

The realization ran through his veins like an electric current, making him gasp.

 _'What the hell am I doing?'_

That wasn't the right time for panic our auto-commiseration. Alfred sucked in a deep breath and bit down on his lower lip, trying to give himself strength. The couple of steps that separated him from Matthew's bed felt like swimming against a current of mud, but finally, Alfred was at his brother's side.

"Hang on, Mattie. Help is coming," he encouraged him in a pathetic, broken whisper.

Matthew's only answer was a heart-wrecking sob that accompanied a small flutter of his eyelids. Alfred's stomach turned, acid singed the back of his throat. He had to turn his head and smother a sob against the palm of his hand.

 _That_ was why he hadn't wanted to go closer: the details of Matthew's ailment were spread in front of his eyes, undeniably real. Alfred couldn't bear to look at the pain distorting his brother's wan features. Instead, he gently closed his hand over Matthew's one and tensed his muscles to prevent it from shaking.

"Help is coming, Mattie. It's going to be all right."

Alfred's words were mostly to his own benefit, yet, they sounded too feeble to have any real weight.

At the same time, there was a truth in them, a truth Alfred desperately clung to: Arthur steps were coming closer, accompanied by two distinct other sets of steps and voices that kept intertwining together.

A moment later, three young men stepped into the bedroom.

Alfred's eyes automatically fell on Arthur's ashen face, seeking comfort, but a glimpse of unnaturally pale hair and a glint of red where the eyes of the person walking next to him were located caught Alfred's attention.

"Gil?"

Alfred knew that Ludwig's older brother was a paramedic, but he had never seen him in action. There was something unsettling in the professional vibe of his anonymous blue uniform – so different from the casual clothes Alfred was used to – and the serious expression that tightened his angular features. Alfred's stomach twisted with uneasiness.

"The one and only, kid." It sounded something like Gilbert would say, yet, the smile he addressed to Alfred was too faint, just the slightest curving of his lips. "Now, I'll need you to move aside, all right? Arthur's already briefed me in, but I need to check Matthew."

For a moment, Alfred just gaped at Gilbert. He had never heard such a serious voice coming out of his lips. It made the ball of uneasiness in chest grow until it was pressing against his lungs.

"Alfred," Arthur whispered then, stretching his arms towards him as he stepped closer, and reality caught up with Alfred.

He jumped to his feet with a small gasp and scrambled to Arthur's side. They were standing so close that their arms were almost touching.

When Gilbert bent over Matthew, Alfred had to turn his head and squeeze his eyes shut. A strangled whimper seeped through his lips when his brother moaned.

"Please, don't…"

Alfred knew that his begging was useless. He _knew_ that Gilbert was probably going to have to check Matthew's abdomen, to move him and to cause him pain. He still couldn't bear the thought.

A hand landed on his left shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It's going to be all right," Arthur whispered, "They're going to take care of him."

But it was all a lie fabricated to make Alfred feel better. Alfred should have been angry about it, about being treated like a child – instead, there was something comforting in those words, in Arthur's familiar presence. Alfred pressed himself closer to him, he hid his head against his brother's shoulder.

Unfortunately, blocking his sight didn't protect Alfred's ears. The rustle of the fabric and bedsheets was followed by Matthew's bloodcurdling scream. Alfred felt his heart shatter into pieces, a fierce ache in his chest sucked the air away from his lungs. A wail bubbled up his throat and was smothered into Arthur's sweater.

At the same moment, spindly fingers landed on his head and started threading through his hair in a gentle, soothing motion. Alfred desperately clung to them. He tightened his fists around Arthur's sweater until he could feel the fabric threatening to tear apart and desperately tried to get his hitched breathing under control.

Then, Gilbert's voice rang clear above the buzzing in Alfred's ears.

"Help me put him on the stretcher without jostling him – on his side, it will be better, for now. Yes, like this."

After a moment of confusion, Alfred realized that the words had to be addressed to the second EMT – there had to be another one accompanying Gilbert, Alfred knew that, but he had barely registered his presence.

In spite of himself, Alfred turned to face the scene without relishing his hold on Arthur's sweater. Matthew was already curled up on the stretcher, panting in agony. He looked even paler than earlier, his ragged breathing harsher, but maybe, it was just Alfred's hyperactive imagination. Hopefully. He welcomed with relief the tightening of Arthur's hand on his shoulder.

"So?" his older brother asked, a note of barely concealed panic in his voice.

Gilbert shook his head.

"I cannot make a full diagnosis, but from the looks of it, I think it might be an abdominal infection at an advanced stage. He needs to be brought to the hospital, I'll complete the check-up inside the ambulance."

And that, more than anything, told Alfred that it was _bad_. He couldn't find words to reply when the stretcher started moving, carrying away his little brother. Maybe, forever. Alfred wanted to follow it, but his head was spinning.

Before he could get his bearings, Arthur squeezed his shoulder and started heading out of the room. Alfred had no choice but to follow him numbly, trying to force his legs not to shake.

"When did this start?" Gilbert asked in the meantime, "Did you notice anything strange in the last few days? Was he complaining about a stomach-ache, had a small appetite…"

Alfred's heart missed a beat at the question, his stomach knotted painfully. He didn't want to undeniably admit his crime by voicing it out loud, yet, not talking would only inflict more damage on Matthew. He couldn't do it.

"I—" Arthur had started talking, but Alfred interrupted him.

"This morning…" his voice was trembling, his words almost sobbed out instead of clearly enunciated. It was embarrassing, humiliating, but he forced himself to go on. "I forgot to wake Mattie up and make him take his antibiotic… it—it should have been three hours ago."

 _There it is, I said it. Yell at me, now._

Alfred hung his head low, unable to witness the disappointment on Gilbert's face. Arthur tightened the hold on his shoulder.

"Alfred…"

Arthur was interrupted by a click of Gilbert's tongue.

"Kid, that's not it. Missing one single dose of antibiotic couldn't possibly cause something so serious in such a short time, it must have developed overtime in the last few days, at least. So, was there anything odd?"

Alfred couldn't believe his ears. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he stumbled, leaning heavily against Arthur's hand to avoid falling down.

 _It's not my fault._

But the relief was short-lived, as a strangled whimper coming from the gurney stabbed Alfred with the knowledge that there was no change to Matthew's conditions.

Arthur's hand on his shoulder stiffened as if his brother was trying to prevent it from shaking.

"I—no, I didn't notice anything. He looked very worn-out yesterday, but I thought it could be plausible, with the school and hockey practice… now that I think about it, he didn't have dinner, but he said he had already eaten… I—I didn't really question it…"

In spite of his best effort to remain calm, Arthur's voice trailed off in a trembling whisper at the end of the sentence.

Alfred wished that he could be angry at him, point out how his words were an admission of his inadequacy as a caretaker. Yet, at the same time, he couldn't curb the awareness that he hadn't done any better. Moreover, Arthur had at least tried and always kept Matthew's health in mind, which was more than what Alfred could claim.

"So, he was probably feeling sick but kept it hidden," Gilbert concluded. Normal Gilbert would have added an epithet, but that uncomfortably professional one didn't let any emotion show before going on with his questioning. "Or maybe… you said hockey, didn't you? Would he have told you, if he had taken a hit?"

Arthur inhaled sharply.

"No… no, I don't think he would have." His voice gained strength with each word, bitterness seeping into it. "I _did_ talk to him after the practice, and I don't think he was holding himself as if he were in pain, but… I was a bit… _off_ yesterday evening…"

The new information hit Alfred's chest like a sharp dagger. For a moment, his lungs refused to fill.

 _Would Arthur have noticed something wrong with Matthew, if he hadn't been upset at me?_

Alfred had no way of knowing. The only thing he knew was that, while Arthur could have avoided being upset by accepting Alfred's decision, Alfred himself hadn't pulled any hit, either. Not to mention, Arthur had just proved he could be much more rational than Alfred.

He swallowed to bring relief to his parched throat and shook his head, trying to focus on the present.

The EMT preceding the gurney had just opened the door and walked past it in confident determination. Alfred and Arthur could do nothing but follow.

The sight of the ambulance parked in front of the lawn made Alfred's stomach twist. With every step towards it, Matthew was getting closer to the needed medical care, but at the same time, the nightmare solidified into reality.

Arthur squeezed Alfred's shoulders and forced him to stop, startling him back to awareness.

"What?" Alfred ground out, whirling towards his older brother.

Arthur's features were tightened in a mask of stone, but the panic he was trying to hide shone in his too expressive eyes.

"Didn't you hear? Gilbert said we cannot go inside the ambulance, he needs free space to move around Matthew."

Alfred had heard nothing of that sort. The ringing in his ears was the most likely culprit, but it didn't stop the stone that dropped to the bottom of his stomach when he registered the meaning of Arthur's words.

"What? No, we need to go!"

Alfred turned sharply back to the ambulance, where Matthew was close to being loaded. The boy was too tiny for that gurney, the lines of agony contorting his ashen face made him look helpless. Alfred couldn't let him go like that, alone and scared. He couldn't possibly let his little brother out of his sight, he needed to present in case anything happened…

But Gilbert stared at him, his eyes hard and unforgiving.

"I'm sorry, kid. I know that you must be scared, but your brother is in bad shape. He needs my undivided attention, I cannot have anybody else distracting me."

Alfred wanted to yell. He wanted to cry and plead Gilbert to let him go, to assure that he would just stay in a corner, unseen. Just looking at his brother's chest and praying it wouldn't stop moving.

Before Alfred could bring his tongue to move, Arthur squeezed his arm.

"Alfred. He's right, we'd only be in the way. We need to think about what would be best for Matthew, now."

Alfred deflated. He still wanted to protest, but he could read the truth in Arthur's eyes, in the pain lacing his voice. Arthur didn't want to leave Matthew's side any more than Alfred did, but he was setting his feelings aside, just like Gilbert. Then, why couldn't Alfred do the same?

"Any allergy I should know of?" Gilbert asked then, just as his partner loaded Matthew into the ambulance.

Alfred wished he could be as collected as everybody else was.

"No, he doesn't have any strong allergy. The pollen bothers him a bit, but no medicinal drug," Arthur answered with the same fake confidence that covered his turmoil.

And there it was. Matthew was inside the ambulance and Gilbert hopped in after him while Alfred just stood next to Arthur, useless and barely able to breathe. A wail bubbled up his throat as the doors started closing, obscuring Matthew from his view.

Gilbert cast him a last glance, his lips curling into a small smile.

"Hey," he said in a softer voice, "We're in the twenty-first century, don't forget this. Your brother looks bad, but medicine can make miracles, nowadays. I've seen people who were in worse conditions and pulled through. Don't lose hope, all right? You need to be strong for your brother."

Put like that, it made sense. Alfred couldn't possibly bring himself to be hopeful, but both Gilbert and Arthur needed him to be collected because it would be the best for Matthew. He took a deep breath and leaned a bit more heavily into Arthur's touch, his eyes glued to the back of the ambulance.

Just when the door was about to close, a sudden thought sparked in his brain, flooding him with horror.

"Wait! You… you asked if Mattie ever reacted badly to any drug, right?"

Gilbert froze with the door half-closed, his eyes snapping back to Alfred.

"Did anything happen?"

"Alfred, what…"

Alfred ignored his brother's confused voice and forced himself to focus solely on Gilbert.

"He… Mattie reacted really badly to marijuana. Like, he was really out of it and hallucinating and he felt sick. And… this means that he might react badly to morphine, right?"

Alfred wished he could recall more from the hazy school lecture he had barely listened to. He forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on Gilbert and ignore the way Arthur inhaled sharply at his side.

A flicker of confusion went through Gilbert's eyes.

"Does your brother regularly make use of marijuana?"

How Gilbert was managing not to make the question sound accusatory, Alfred didn't know. He shook his head and swallowed down the scorching bile at the back of his throat, trying to ignore the way his stomach turned.

"Jesus, no! He would never. It was an accident! He just… it was brownies. He didn't know there was pot in them."

Gilbert didn't leave Alfred enough time for panic or auto commiseration.

"Oh. All right. Shouldn't be an issue, then, but it's still another element that might be useful. Thank you for saying that."

And with that, the doors closed behind Gilbert and the engine roared into motion, bringing the ambulance – and Matthew – away from the house.

Alfred stared until the vehicle was out of sight, his chest tight and his stomach so painfully knotted that a corner of his brain feared he was about to throw up. He couldn't help but picture what might be happening inside the ambulance. Matthew flatlining, Gilbert doing CPR and yelling… Alfred trusted Gilbert, but it was only a small consolation.

 _Be strong, Mattie. Please, be strong._

Pleading was all Alfred could do. He had never felt more pathetic.

"Alfred…"

With Arthur's weary voice, the implication of what he had just admitted washed against Alfred like a cold shower. He turned to his brother because he couldn't refuse to do that, but he knew a scolding was going to shatter him. For once, Alfred's brain couldn't find a single argument to refute his guilt.

And for once, Arthur simply shook his head, a mixture of shock and exhaustion etched into his features. The hand that had never left Alfred's shoulder gave it a gentle squeeze before going back to Arthur side.

"We should follow them to the hospital," his brother said in a weary voice, "I'll get my phone and wallet, go wash your face."

Alfred blinked at Arthur's remark. He brought his fingers to his right cheek and was surprised to find it wet. He hadn't even realized he had been crying.

"Come on, Alfred."

Alfred followed his brother's command and dashed to the bathroom, where he sprayed cold water on his face. He accurately avoided looking at his reflection on the mirror.

In a matter of seconds, he was in front of the door, where Arthur was waiting for him.

"Let's go," was all his brother said.

Alfred followed him to the car without hesitation. He couldn't help but notice how it had been quite long since he had been inside the vehicle without any argument going on – but Arthur was sitting as stiff as a statue, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

The silence pressed down on Alfred's chest, constricting his lungs. He wanted to shatter it, but he was afraid of how Arthur would answer. His brother had already been angry about the forgotten antibiotic, his reaction to what Alfred had just confessed wouldn't be any better. Alfred knew he couldn't take it.

Instead, he resorted to looking out of the window as he used all his willpower not to drum his fingers somewhere, trying to will the car to go faster. Arthur was going faster than he usually did, but the traffic lights were against them, tainting with a hopeful green only to turn red right before their passage. Arthur's jaw and the muscles of his neck were taut, but a soft imprecation still seeped through his gritted teeth, jolting Alfred.

"Sorry about that," Arthur said immediately after.

The strong regret lacing his voice – one that had nothing to do with the inappropriate language – increased the lump inside Alfred's throat. He wanted to apologize or reassure Arthur, but his tongue was stiff and his mouth too dry to talk. He once again turned his head towards the window only for his eyes to fall on two boys who were playing with their dog on the sidewalk, seemingly without any care in the world.

 _It could be Mattie and me._

But maybe, it would never be again. Alfred jerked his eyes away and fixed them on his knees, trying to ignore the sour taste that had invaded his mouth.

Beside him, Arthur sucked in a deep breath.

"Alfred…"

But Alfred didn't want to hear what Arthur had to say, be it a reproach or an empty reassurance. Not until he was sure about what was going on with Matthew, at least.

"Don't."

Alfred's voice came out a lot harsher than he had intended. It was actually the tone he often used with Arthur, but at the present moment, it sounded snotty and haughty. Not something Arthur deserved, after the impressive display of nerves he had just issued.

"Just… focus on getting us to the hospital, okay?" Alfred tried to correct himself in a more collected tone, but the damage was already done.

Arthur acknowledged his words with a defeated sigh, but he didn't push the conversation any further. The rest of the ride was spent in a heavy silence. Alfred wished he could distract himself with something, but his phone was still in Arthur's room. In his hurry, his brother had probably forgotten about it.

By the time the car pulled to a stop in the hospital's parking lot, dread had eaten up every emotion inside Alfred, leaving him unable to move. He wanted to be closer to Matthew, but being left in the dark was still better than having an answer he didn't like.

But, once again, there was no choice.

Next to him, Arthur took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

"Come on, Alfred. Let's go."

The slight tremble in his voice made him sound about as scared as Alfred himself was feeling, but he was trying to collect himself. And if Arthur could do it, so could Alfred.

Together, the two brothers got out of the car and walked to the front desk. The rhythmic thumping of their feet against the floor resounded in Alfred's bones, making his heart beat faster.

While Arthur explained to the receptionist the reason for their visit, Alfred stood a few steps behind, desperately trying to control his breathing and not start sobbing. He shouldn't have been surprised that Matthew was still with the doctors and there was no news, but the receptionist sympathetic words still felt like a punch to the stomach. The way Arthur gently grabbed his arm to steer Alfred away from the front desk was probably humiliating, Alfred was far too old for that, but he couldn't bring himself to shy away from that warm touch, the last vestige of comfort left.

From there on, it was just waiting game, sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair and jumping at every nurse or doctor that passed by, hoping he or she had been sent to brief Arthur and Alfred on Matthew's situation.

Alfred should have been used to that. It wasn't the first time Matthew was hospitalized; after the accident that had taken their natural mother's life away and very nearly brought Matthew with her as well, two cases of pneumonia and a bad flu had landed his little brother on a hospital bed. No matter all the antibiotics and vaccines, his health was frail, something everybody was painfully aware of.

Yet, the previous times had been different. With the knowledge of Matthew's conditions always in their minds, Mom and Dad had used to seek medical care as soon as Matthew showed any alarming symptom and serious consequences had been prevented by a prompt intervention. In spite of his previous hospitalizations and other scares, it was the first time Matthew had needed an ambulance.

It was also the first time Alfred had seen him in such dire conditions. The lines of agony contorting his brother's too pale face kept dancing in front of his eyes, his strained breaths echoed in his ears.

 _How did we let it go this far?_

In spite of all his faults, Arthur had kept Matthew's health in mind as much as their parents had done. And maybe, that was exactly what made the difference: their parents had been united in their goals and supported each other to reach them. Alfred, instead, had done nothing but row against Arthur at every turn, which had decreased the attention his brother could spare for Matthew.

Alfred desperately wished he could be still angry at Arthur, but all his dreams felt like a distant fantasy and his arguments trivial, now that his little brother's life was hanging on a thread.

 _'It's Arthur's fault for not paying enough attention,'_ Alfred desperately tried to tell himself, but the knowledge that Arthur hadn't been the only one not attentive enough was rooted deep into his brain.

He pressed his knuckles against his burning eyelids, trying to prevent the tears from escaping.

The hand on his arm tightened its grip for a moment.

"Alfred…"

"Don't," Alfred spat out through gritted teeth, "don't say it's going to be all right. We don't know, yet."

Lashing out made him feel better for a fleeting moment, but the weight inside his stomach returned as soon as his eyes landed on Arthur's hurt expression.

"I wasn't trying to say that," his brother said softly, dragging the words, "I just wanted to apologize, actually. Earlier, about the antibiotic… I was too harsh with you. This isn't your fault."

Alfred had been waiting for months for an apology from Arthur. He had thought it would be a glorious moment of self-affirmation, not such a weak whisper that made the lump in his throat even bigger.

Alfred could only shake his head as tears welled in his eyes and let the silence once again stretch between them.

Alfred desperately tried to keep his mind occupied. He read the posters on the wall until he was an expert of the risks of smoking and knew exactly what to do in case of a fire, memorised the plant of the hospital and, after he was done with that, he started looking at the people who walked by, trying to make up their story.

The new pastime only turned Alfred's mood for the worse. Each nurse was a nurse who might be following a case similar to Matthew. Maybe, that pretty, dark-skinned girl who lingered for a moment in front of a window looked so spent because she had just witnessed a child die in front of her eyes. Maybe, that child was Matthew, and the doctor was still deciding how to bring the news to Alfred and Arthur. Alfred felt sick at the thought.

"About the weed thing," he blurted out, unable to bear the silence any longer without exploding.

Arthur stiffened, but when he spoke, his voice didn't betray any emotion.

"Yes, I would like to hear that."

Alfred gripped his knees until his knuckles were white and rocked on his chair, taking a deep breath.

"It was at the end of last summer. You remember Allen and Allyson, don't you? Well… Mattie had always said that they smoked weed and other stuff. But, I didn't believe him because… I thought they were kind of nice, you know. Misguided, but nice. I thought it was just rumours put around by people who didn't like them, and Mattie was so naïve that he had just believed it."

Arthur scoffed at that. He had the grace not to voice out his opinion, but Alfred already knew it, and a bitter part of his brain couldn't help but agree. _Alfred_ had been the naïve one.

"So, I wasn't worried about Mattie spending time with them – in fact, I encouraged it. I thought it might help him broaden his views. And then…"

The mere recollection brought bile to the back of Alfred's throat. He closed his fists over the fabric of his jeans to steady himself.

"You had a trip with your internship, remember? You left really early and were gone for the entire day. I invited Allyson and Allen, even though you didn't want them inside our house. We just wanted to have fun, we had downloaded some movies and had the PS4. It was supposed to be something really innocent. Allyson had brought a tray with brownies, she said they were for later and I didn't think anything of it. I left because we didn't have popcorns, I just wanted to buy some real quick. I left Mattie home, I thought he would be fine, but when I came back… the first thing I heard, was Allyson laughing. I thought something funny had happened. Instead, when I got into the living room… Matthew was on his back, he was mumbling and crying. It was… there was nothing to laugh about. He looked terrified, and nobody was helping him. They just thought it was _funny_!"

Alfred's voice hitched, he had to stop to take a deep breath. His heart was racing, the recollection of Allyson's laughter and Allen's mocking comments still rang clear in his hears. He would never be able to forget them, or the cruel glints in those rich brown eyes. In that summer afternoon, the veil had suddenly been shredded, and Alfred had been able to have a glimpse of what Matthew and even Arthur had always seen. Maybe the cruelty that had ruined them had been inflicted by their parents, but Allen and Allyson had embraced it fully.

"Allyson told me it had been pot-laced brownies. She was even mocking Mattie for how gullible he had been, but Allen snorted and said it was just because she had put them inside our cupboard, inside one of your boxes, so Matthew thought you had bought them. It had been a premeditated accident. I… I really lost it, at that point. Chased them away and never talked to them afterwards."

Even though the rage distorting the memories made them hazy, Alfred was pretty sure that beating Allen had been involved as well – he could recall Allyson screaming, warm blood coating his hands – but Arthur already had all the elements he needed.

"Matthew didn't remember anything. After he stopped hallucinating, he was really sick, he couldn't even stand and he kept throwing up for basically the entire day. I behaved like I believed it was a really bad stomach bug and he didn't question it. He was probably feeling too awful to."

Alfred risked stealing a glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Arthur was gaping at him, his widened eyes quickly narrowing as his forehead creased in anger. He made as if to open his mouth, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I remember that day," he muttered slowly, "You hardly waited for me to cross the doorway before informing me Matthew was lying down and he had been feeling nauseous and under the weather since mid-morning. You had been so attentive, always by his side and making sure he drank enough water…" Arthur shook his head. "I was so glad you were once again taking responsibility for him, so proud…"

The weight in Alfred's stomach was physically painful, at that point. He had convinced himself that he didn't feel guilty for that episode anymore, but his reaction seemed to say otherwise. Arthur's words were the last blow. If he had yelled, Alfred might have summoned enough anger to defend himself. In front of Arthur's defeated voice and the deep lines marking his tired face, Alfred could do nothing but simmer in uneasiness.

"I wish you had told me before," Arthur muttered, "But… at least, you made the right choice back then. I just…"

"You would have just yelled at me," Alfred rebutted in his defence, but his voice sounded whinier than hardened by confidence.

Arthur recoiled, stiffening.

"Well, it _was_ a rather…" Arthur's voice trailed off. He shook his head and sighed. "But I suppose this hardly matters, at the moment."

Alfred didn't have any strength left to be angry at Arthur. He left the silence envelope them again and let his eyes wander around the corridor, once again falling on the posters. When Arthur shuffled closer to him, Alfred didn't move away, but gradually copied the motion.

 _Why aren't they telling us anything?_

The conversation with Arthur had provided a temporary distraction, but now, the anxiety was rising again.

 _If they don't tell us anything, Matthew isn't dead._

It was the only comforting thought Alfred could muster, and at the same time, he couldn't help but acknowledge that such a delay meant that what was going on was truly serious.

"I need to give Francis a call," Arthur stated some time later.

Alfred turned to his brother, his brow rising in surprise.

"Why?"

Arthur didn't even _like_ Francis. In fact, he kept their interactions to the strict minimum.

Arthur gave a tired shake of his head.

"Matthew's his cousin, you know how much he cares for you both. He would want to know something so serious, and I think he has the right to."

"Before we even have a diagnosis?"

Arthur shot Alfred a pitying look.

"We don't know how long it will take. And… it's quite likely that Matthew will need to stay for a couple of days, at least. With him being a minor, I'll be allowed to stay with him, but I doubt this will extend to you as well, no matter our family situation."

Alfred couldn't contradict Arthur, he was aware of how a Paediatric ICU worked from Matthew's previous ailments. But the previous times, their father had stayed by his younger son's side while Arthur and Alfred were home with their mother. The new development brought a bitter taste to Alfred's mouth. With their parents gone, Arthur was alone carrying a burden that was far too heavy for the shoulders of a twenty-year-old, and Alfred was just as lonely by reflex.

 _At least, Francis will be here._

It _was_ a consolation, but hardly enough.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Arthur asked, shaking Alfred out of his gloomy thoughts.

Food didn't sound half-bad. In spite of the late hour, Alfred's stomach was too coiled on itself to feel real hunger – but chewing could still provide a distraction. He accepted the change handed by Arthur and lingered for some time at the vending machine at the corner of the corridor, glancing back every few seconds to make sure no doctor or nurse had approached Arthur in the meantime.

By the time Alfred got back to the blue plastic seat that had almost become his second house, Arthur was done with the phone call and hastily rubbing his suspiciously red eyes with a fist. Alfred pretended not to notice, just like he desperately ignored the wetness prickling at the corner of his own eyes. Instead, he extended a Kit-Kat towards Arthur as a peace offering.

"You should eat something as well. Breakfast was ages ago."

Arthur accepted the food with a slight nod, but his lips were tightly pressed together and didn't show the slightest hint of a smile. Instead of tearing apart the wrapper, his fingers started playing with it.

Unable to bear the sight, Alfred turned his head and focused on the snickers bar in his hand. One bite at a time, concentrating on chewing thoroughly before swallowing. Alfred could hardly feel the taste, it all felt like cardboard mush, but at least, concentrating on the food meant he didn't have to think about anything else.

A gentle hand closing on his forearm jerked Alfred back to the grim reality.

"That's enough, you'll make yourself sick."

Alfred blinked, taken out of surprise by Arthur's words and the note of concern in his voice. Seven empty wrappers were discarded into his lap, and for the first time, he became aware of the uncomfortable heaviness inside his stomach that wasn't only emotional discomfort, at that point.

"Right," he muttered, "Right, I should…"

Alfred tried to gather the wrappers, but his hands were trembling and his vision oddly blurred.

A tentative hand landed on his shoulder.

"Alfred, it's…"

Alfred shook his head.

"I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth, blinking away the tears, "It's not me you should be worrying about."

Before Arthur could retort, an exclamation in French made both their heads snap up.

Francis strode towards them, his unbuttoned blue coat fluttering behind him. A deep concern warped his features and widened his periwinkle blue eyes.

"Arthur, Alfred! You're still here… haven't you heard anything?"

Arthur gave a jerky shake of his head, but Alfred found himself unable to move or talk, the breath blocked in his throat. There was something in Francis's presence that made the current situation even more undeniably real, and his heart was thumping wildly with the realization.

When Francis knelt down next to him, widening his arms in acceptance, something inside Alfred snapped. A wail erupted from his throat, the tears he had been trying to restrain ran freely down his cheeks.

Two terrified gasps rang somewhere next to him, Alfred felt two different pairs of arms envelop him, but his only reaction to them was to sob until his chest hurt.

 _Mattie's going to die, just like Mom and Dad and Mama before them._

Alfred couldn't lose him as well, he would never bear it. And there was nothing he could do but sob, pressing his head against somebody's shoulder – he couldn't even tell if Arthur's or Francis's. The soothing words and gentle hands threading through his hair and rubbing his back and arms meant nothing. They had no power to heal Matthew.

Alfred thought he would have sobbed forever, but after what felt like an eternity, he started running out of tears. Too spent for a stronger display of emotion, his weary body listed against Francis's side and let itself be lulled by his arms as Alfred occasionally sniffled, his eyes closed and his head leaning against his cousin's shoulder.

Part of him wished that the one holding him were Arthur, just like when he had been a child, but his older brother was just stiffly patting his shoulder, and the dark shadows in his eyes scared Alfred. It was as if an ocean had welled up between them. Matthew had tried many times to dry it, but Matthew wasn't there – and maybe, he would never be anymore. Alfred would never have the chance to apologize or tell him he had been right.

Alfred had stopped sniffling and was lolling in a drained stupor when a feminine voice resounded across the corridor.

"Is there an Arthur Kirkland here? Stepbrother and legal guardian of Matthew Williams?"

Alfred snapped his head up, suddenly alert, as Francis tightened the hold on his shoulder and his brother jumped up from his chair.

"That would be me," Arthur answered, his voice trembling in trepidation. "How is Matthew? He's going to be all right, isn't he?"

The nurse, a young Asian woman with a kind face, only offered a circumstantial smile at the pleading quality of Arthur's voice.

"Please follow me. Dr Wang and Dr Oxenstierna will brief you on the situation."

Without waiting for an answer, the nurse turned and started heading right. Alfred prepared his muscles to stand, but Francis restrained him.

"I'll come back as soon as I know something," Arthur declared with a last glance at Alfred and Francis, then he followed after the nurse, his hands visibly trembling.

"The doctors will want to talk to an adult," Francis remarked before Alfred could voice out his frustration.

Alfred huffed and gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. He wanted to run after Arthur and be inside the room with him, to hear the account first-hand.

Instead, he kept his eyes glued to high bun the nurse's dark hair was tied in, noticing how it reflected the light, until it disappeared behind the corner. Making a scene wasn't going to help Matthew.

In spite of that awareness, waiting wasn't easy. Alfred's body was completely rigid, his muscles about to snap, and with every second that went by with unbearable slowness his chest constricted a bit more and his heart threatened to explode. Francis's arm around his shoulders was grounding, but not a consolation.

If part of Alfred had thought that Arthur coming back would finally defeat the tension, it was painfully wrong. His brother's pasty face and his wide, panicked eyes dropped another weight inside Alfred's stomach. That wasn't the expression of somebody carrying good news.

"So, what's going on?" Francis asked sharply as he tensed against Alfred.

Arthur shook his head. He licked his lips before talking, but he looked as if his heart wasn't there, almost in shock.

"They said it was appendicitis."

 _Appendicitis?_

Alfred sagged against Francis, his head spinning with the sudden relief that had washed over him.

"So, it's nothing too serious, right? Just really painful, but they'll operate him and… wait, was that already done? We had to wait so long…"

Arthur, however, didn't reciprocate Alfred's relieved smile. If anything, his expression darkened.

Alfred's heart missed a beat as a weight once again pressed against his stomach.

"Arthur, what's going on?" Francis asked again, a hint of barely concealed panic in his voice.

Arthur shook his head, making Alfred's stomach churn. He took a shuddering breath before he could talk again.

"Somehow, his appendix ruptured – they said it might have been a blow, there's a bad bruise, it's quite likely it happened during hockey – and… his body couldn't fight off the infection. It spread to the peritoneum, then to his bloodstream, and Matthew… he was going into shock when they brought him in."

Alfred couldn't breathe. Arthur shaky voice had been registered in his brain, but he couldn't accept the truth of his words.

"No…" He shook away Francis's hand and stood up to face Arthur. "No, that's… it isn't possible, Mattie should have been feeling bad since yesterday at least, and appendicitis is supposed to be, like, terribly painful, he should have kept it hidden for so long for us not to notice, that's not plausible…"

Alfred's voice trailed off in front of Arthur's solemn eyes. If there was somebody who could try to hide a case of appendicitis, that person was Matthew. Alfred felt like throwing up, all the snacks he had previously ingested were now pressing against his stomach and threatening to spill over.

"But… how…" Francis echoed in a broken whisper.

"Dr Wang explained that, right after the appendix is ruptured, the pain tends to abate quite a bit. That's why Matthew managed to hide he was feeling sick, most likely. And, since he went to bed right after… He didn't call for help, and nobody noticed until this morning."

Alfred opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to say something, but his head was spinning from the shock and his tongue felt heavy.

"Oh Mon Dieu…" he heard Francis say from far away, unable to keep the horror away from his voice. "But… how is he, now? He's… he's going to recover, isn't he?"

Arthur lowered his eyes and clenched his fists.

"He's in the ICU, sedated and on life support." He spat out each word as if articulating it took an incredible effort. "They have him on ample-spectrum antibiotics until the lab tests come back and they can give something more specific, but… it's just seeing what happens, from now on. From the conditions he was in, there's about a fifty percent chance of him surviving. He pulled through the first six hours, which they told me is some sort of landmark and, as such, a good sign, but he's still not breathing on his own. It's too early to say how it will develop."

Alfred couldn't believe the words that were coming out of Arthur's mouth.

 _It's a nightmare or a joke._

But it hadn't been the day their parents had died. Why should it be now? Alfred wanted to scream, but his lungs seemed frozen, unable to suck in any air.

The sharp breath Francis drew in next to him sounded too close to a broken sob.

"But… there's still a fifty percent, right? And… just where is Matthew? Can we see him?"

The last words finally jolted Alfred out of his stupor. He took a step towards Arthur and grabbed his arm, for once not caring if his brother could see the tears welling in his eyes.

"Yeah, I want to see Mattie!"

Arthur hesitated.

"You can't stay, of course. And the visiting hours are very strict in the ICU… but, they told me they were going to make an exception for just a moment. If you want…"

"Of course I want to see him! What are you waiting for?"

Arthur shot him a dubious look, but he didn't protest.

"Well… come with me, then," he said before turning away.

As he walked behind him, Alfred couldn't help but question his own decision. The anxiety was rising every second along with his heartbeat, and seeing Matthew motionless on a hospital bed, just like in a movie… he wasn't sure he could take it. Yet, he needed to, for it might be the last time he ever saw his brother. Alfred's parents had been torn away from him without any warning, he couldn't give away the chance of saying goodbye to his little brother, no matter how much his chest constricted at the thought.

Once in front of the ICU room, Alfred's head was spinning and his stomach churning, but he gave Arthur a determined nod.

"I can give you only a minute, dear," a short, chubby nurse remarked in a gentle voice.

Alfred barely acknowledged her. All could truly care about was the small hand that landed on the handle of the door and pushed it open, making way for Alfred.

He took a deep breath and stepped in.

For a moment, the sterile smell that hit his nostrils and the rhythmic beeping and whirring sound in the background disoriented him, but it wasn't as surprising as the first time. What was more important was the form that lay motionless in the middle of the bed, surrounded by IV lines and other machines Alfred didn't want to think about.

Matthew was so pale that his skin almost looked grey, and the purple circles under his eyes enforced the strong impression of malady. Even worse was the aqua-green band securing the tube inside his mouth.

It wasn't the first time Alfred saw a ventilator, but it was always an unsettling experience. And he hadn't even started looking at the multiple IV lines, the pressure cuff around Matthew's left arm, or the pulse oximeter attached to the same hand. Alfred had learnt the function of each device near the end of Matthew's second encounter with pneumonia. With his little brother awake and his life not in danger, the medical equipment had looked alien enough to qualify more as an exciting discovery than scary. Now, Alfred couldn't bring himself to move closer to the bed.

"You can't stay for long, sweetheart. You can get closer, it's no problem."

This time, Alfred turned to the nurse and looked at her long enough to notice how welcoming the smile on her round face looked. Her eyes brought a pang of pain to Alfred's chest. They weren't exactly the same shade of violet as Matthew's eyes, closer to lavender than lilac, but they were similar enough to remind him painfully of those eyes he would maybe never see again.

Alfred abruptly diverted his gaze and took the last few missing steps, then bent down over his little brother. He brushed some soft strands of hair away from the too hot forehead then settled for taking Matthew's limp hand, mindful of the IV lines. He didn't know if it was worse like that, or spasmodically gripping the sheets.

Alfred had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could speak.

"Stay strong, Mattie. Please, stay strong. I can't lose you as well."

His voice broke in a sob. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his brother's hand, desperately trying to restrain the tears. He couldn't think about anything else to say, but after all, Matthew wasn't going to hear.

Too soon, a gentle touch on his shoulder alerted Alfred that his time was up.

"I know that this is hard for you," the nurse started saying as she led Alfred back to the door. "But you must not lose hope. If you had waited any longer before asking for help, we would probably be talking about something different, but right now, your brother is still alive and he can recover. You must not give up on him."

Alfred wasn't planning to, but the resolution didn't make him feel any better. Nonetheless, he offered a stiff smile to the nurse, looking at her nametag instead of her face. Her name was 'Kristiina', the surname looked so complicated that Alfred gave up on trying to read it.

"You can just call me Tiina," the nurse declared, "And you'll see me around most of the time, as long as your brother is here. If you want clarification on anything you just have to ask, all right, sweetheart?"

Tiina's warm gentleness sounded almost maternal. It would be appreciated, if it weren't such a strong reminder of what Alfred had already lost. He was glad when they said goodbye in front of the door.

He couldn't bear to speak to Arthur, the look they shared before his brother replaced him inside the room said far more than what Alfred could have put into words.

Alfred was silent and empty as he walked with Francis out of the hospital, led his cousin's warm hand on his left shoulder. He didn't even have enough strength left to cry.

Francis, instead, kept rambling, in spite of the slight shake in his voice.

"You must not think this is the end. There is one chance out of two Matthew will pull through, and he's stronger than you give him credit for. He will fight, and he will survive."

Alfred was partially in agreement with Francis's words – Matthew's will was stronger than a first glance could have suggested. Will alone, however, didn't make up for a frail body like the one Matthew had.

Alfred wished he could be as hopeful as Francis, but he was also painfully aware that his natural parents and stepmother had been lost against much better odds. When even the starting point was less favourable, he couldn't truly bring himself to believe things would, for once, take a turn for the better.

 _And if Matthew dies, the last thing I told him was essentially that I couldn't stand him anymore._

Alfred couldn't have imagined a worse situation, and he had only himself to blame.

* * *

The whirring of the ventilator lulled Arthur into a state of half-dream as he kept holding Matthew's hand.

"This is all my fault, isn't it?" he mused to his unconscious brother.

Tiina hadn't left the room, but Arthur pretended she was only part of the background, focusing on his brother's limp figure as he spewed out the words that were eroding him from the inside.

"I should have noticed. There's no excuse for this. I saw you were pale and tired, how could I not connect the dots?"

Neither Dr Wang nor Dr Oxenstierna pinned any blame on Arthur; they had just listened to him in their serious professionality. _"It might seem absurd, but missing even important signals is quite easy, when the right conditions arise,"_ Dr Oxenstierna had commented at the end.

The 'right conditions', in Matthew's case, were Arthur's inability to keep track of everything the way he should have.

"I know your health is frail, I have always done my best account for it. But with this, I have only ended up smothering you to the point that you'd rather hide when you're feeling sick, haven't I?"

Arthur had always tried his best, but as a result of his attempt to protect his brothers, he had instead alienated them so much that they didn't even feel free to discuss important matters with him. For the first time, Arthur understood fully what Alfred meant by claiming he was suffocating them. Arthur wasn't surprised by how his brother had barely been able to look at him in the eyes – to Alfred's, Arthur's blame must be as clear as daylight.

Arthur tightened his hold on Matthew's hand.

"Alfred will never forgive me, if we lose you," he admitted in a broken whisper.

The real truth was that Arthur wouldn't forgive himself, either.

 **(word count: 9,499)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

105.98 °F = 41.1 °C

Kristiina/Tiina is Nyo Finland

I don't want to ramble too much, but I want to make a specification on the medical part: I might have taken some freedom on how long it takes for sepsis to set in. I took care of maximizing all the factors that might have worsened Matthew's response (frail health to begin with, immunocompromised due to removed spleen and not taking the needed antibiotics, high stress levels…) but it might still be too fast. Either way, this is a story written to have fun and not a presentation of a clinical case, I hope you'll forgive me this one.

If you have any question or want to know something more, you can also find me on tumblr (feynavaley).

Until next time :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes** **:** Sorry for the delay, real life is still kicking my butt, for lack of better words. Regardless, I have to thank you a lot for the feedback, it's truly appreciated!

 **Warnings:** There might be inaccuracies as I'm not a medical professional.  
There are also some intentional mistakes due to the internal POV and the fact none of the characters has a background in medicine.

That said, I hope you'll like the chapter! And please leave some feedback <3

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

The words blurred in front of Alfred's eyes, lost in the flickering of the old screen. He didn't need to see them to remember, however. A single instant had been enough to carve them behind his eyelids, into his soul. Alfred wanted to be sick.

Just a few moments earlier, he had been gritting his teeth in frustration at the slowness of Francis's old computer. In retrospect, it had been a small blessing, almost as if Francis's outdated technology had joined its owner in his crusade to protect Alfred.

Part of Alfred wished he could go back in time and forget, but he couldn't even bring himself to move the mouse under his hand and close the page. Alfred's entire body was paralyzed, the horrid revelation turning his limbs into stone.

Yet, Alfred couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen or his mind from the words, for he didn't deserve to. That guilt that started from his stomach and invaded his entire being was the price to pay for his mistake – and it still wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Alfred's heart, that had stopped for some instants, started pounding again as his head spun. It sounded like an ominous drum, beats against wood – but no, those were Francis's steps as he climbed upstairs.

"Alfred?"

With his cousin's tentative voice, the spell shattered. Alfred spurred back into motion, jumping up from the chair. Francis was almost at the door, there was no time to turn off the computer – Alfred's eyes ran all over the room until they settled on the plug. He lunged at it and tore away the cable just as the door creaked open. Francis was never going to notice.

"Alfred, are you ready to go?"

Francis's voice was soft, in harmony with the gentle smile barely curving his lips. Only the tight lines around his eyes displayed his inner turmoil. His calm was fake – _everything_ was fake.

Alfred wanted to scream.

Instead, he swallowed to bring relief to his parched throat and reciprocated Francis's smile with an equally forced one.

"Sure. Let's go."

In spite of all Alfred's effort, his voice was flat and unenthusiastic, he wasn't sure it could fool anybody. It certainly didn't seem to work on Francis – as Alfred stepped next to him, his cousin reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

Alfred hated himself for the way his body leaned into the warm weight, drawing comfort from it. _Alfred_ didn't deserve that comfort. Alfred wasn't the one who was close to death, fighting for each breath that filled his lungs.

"I know it's hard, but it's going to be all right. You must not lose hope."

Francis's words broke the spell, making Alfred's stomach flip. He clenched his jaw to prevent himself from answering.

 _'Stop this, you don't know anything!'_ he wanted to scream, but Francis had been trying his best. He didn't deserve his gentleness to be repaid with Alfred's vitriol – nor did Alfred deserve the concern and gentleness that would follow his outburst.

He shook Francis's hand away from his shoulder and preceded his cousin down the stairs.

"Let's go! We have to arrive as soon as visiting hours start, we have to use all the time we have!"

Francis nodded, but his creased brow never relaxed.

Alfred couldn't blame him. In truth, he wasn't sure of how much the idea of sitting at Matthew's bedside – of staring at his wan face, squeezing his limp hand, listening to medical equipment that was keeping him alive – appealed to him. He longed to stay at his little brother's side with so much intensity that his chest ached – and, at the same time, the mere thought made his stomach turn. The sterile ICU room didn't lie: it wasn't just a nightmare, every heartbeat registered on the monitor threatened to be the last one. And it was the undeniable, painful reality.

At the same time, that was exactly the reason Alfred _needed_ to stay there. The pixelated words on the screen kept dancing in front of his eyes, harsh and accusing. Alfred needed to feel all the possible pain, because that was the penance he deserved. And it still wouldn't be enough.

Alfred suddenly realized that his eyes were stinging, tears pressing against his eyelids. He gritted his teeth and shook his head, forcing himself to take a deep breath from his nose.

 _'Collect yourself, idiot!'_

"Any news from Arthur?" he asked to distract himself as he opened the door at the passenger's side of Francis's blue car.

The answer was almost immediate.

"I called him about half an hour ago as I was going to the bakery. There's no change. But, it's actually good news – no change means that nothing got worse, either."

That was one way of seeing it, Alfred supposed. Pity that not ever Francis himself believed it – his voice had a desperate, almost hysterical note, and he was forcefully keeping his arms and shoulders rigid to prevent them from shaking.

 _Tragedy turns all us into liars, or fools in our desperation to cling to hope. Or maybe, it's both._

"Why don't you call him to let him know we're coming?" Francis asked then, tearing Alfred away from his gloomy thoughts. "Your voice would be probably more welcome than mine."

In spite of the weak smile Alfred addressed to Francis at the quip, his cousin's words made a knife twist in his chest. If Arthur hadn't been angry and disgusted at him, it was probably due to the shock and the fact he didn't have enough energy to worry about two different things. Once the shock would fade… Alfred wasn't looking forward to facing his older brother, then. Bringing it up with Francis wouldn't have been fair, however.

"Sure, I can call him if you want," he murmured with a shrug, "You'll have to lend me your phone, though. I don't know where mine is— I mean, it's at home. I was grounded, Arthur took it away. I don't know where he put it."

The previous day, when they had stopped at their house to get a change of clothes for Alfred, he had been in such a hurry to get away from that suffocating emptiness that he hadn't even thought about looking for it. He couldn't bring himself to summon even a spark of anger for the punishment, it seemed to belong to a lifetime before – devoid of any meaning, compared to the tragedy Alfred was trapped into.

Francis's only answer was a non-committal, soft _"Oh."_ His phone was passed from the right pocket of his coat to Alfred's hands without other words.

As Francis turned the key into the engine, Alfred was left staring at the screen of the old flip phone, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The lump inside his throat was so big that he could barely breathe. In the end, Alfred opted for writing a message and immediately pushed the phone away from him, the – admittedly too many – pastries he had inhaled for breakfast without even tasting them summersaulting inside his stomach.

The only display of Francis's concern was the thinning of his lips. Or perhaps, it was dismay. Alfred couldn't tell. While his cousin was generally forgiving and compassionate, this time, Alfred had stepped so much over the limit that he didn't know if any person in complete possession of his mental faculties could ever forgive him.

"I'm sure Matthieu will start improving, today," Francis commented in a forcefully positive voice.

Alfred didn't answer. The mere fact Matthew wasn't dead was nothing short of a miracle, which _was_ a positive sign in itself. Alfred couldn't forget what he had been told, however. How long it had taken to get his brother's blood pressure to a level that was close to acceptable, how he still was too weak to breathe on his own. There was no guarantee Matthew's health would improve instead of starting to decline. The odds were fifty percent, the doctors had said. Pity that Matthew had never been lucky.

Francis seemed to sense Alfred's uneasiness for he quickly changed subject, talking instead about the girls working at his bakery – Laura, who was also in charge of managing the finances, and a new one, Iryna – and how they had offered to run it by themselves for a few days. Alfred would have welcomed the distraction the meaningless chat provided, but he couldn't help but notice how the composure in Francis's voice was forced, wrong. He was glad when the car finally stopped in front of the hospital, putting an end to that heart-wrenching farce.

Of course, now came the hardest part.

Alfred's heart was pounding too fast inside his chest, making him feel dizzy and nauseous.

 _Will anything have changed with Mattie?_

Alfred didn't know. Perhaps, Francis was right and the worst was finally over. But there was an equal chance that the situation had taken a turn for the worse. Alfred didn't want to know. The numbers imprinted in his brain seemed to judge him with their ineluctability.

 _Ten percent every hour… but is it absolute or incremental? If it's incremental… is it much of an improvement? Or should I look at this from the opposite perspective – how bad is it if it's absolute instead of incremental?_

Alfred hadn't had enough time to find it out. In truth, it didn't matter. All that matter was the meaning behind that number, behind Matthew's suffering. Alfred didn't have any right to shield himself from that.

Taking a deep breath, he dove out of the car and strode to the hospital.

Francis was soon next to him, quickening his pace to keep up.

"Alfred, we're still a bit early, they won't let anybody in before nine. And they might decide we can't stay more than a couple of minutes, like yesterday. There's no need to rush…"

Alfred shook his head.

"We can still stay in the lounge. At least, we'll be there as soon as we can."

It was almost funny. He had dreaded his visit to the hospital, but from the moment he was there, he wanted to stay as close to Matthew – _to the damage he had caused_ – as much as he could.

Ignoring any protest from Francis, Alfred quickened his pace as he walked across the hallway. He passed by the information point without sparing a single glance to it – unfortunately, this time, he knew far too well where he had to go, the white walls of the corridors were familiar to him in a way that made his skin crawl and his stomach churn. Alfred kept his head high and tried to ignore everything but the automatic motion of his legs, his feet rising and coming down, one after the other.

He had almost succeeded into making all his surroundings fade out when a familiar voice made him halt in his tracks.

"No, no, this is crazy. Guys, we have to stop. Didn't you hear the nurse? Any information is confidential, privacy is important. What do you think we can even accomplish this way? We might go as far as the lounge, but we'll surely be caught by then. It won't look good. No, we should—"

The exhaustion after an almost sleepless night made Alfred's tongue faster than his brain.

"Tolys?"

The question seeped through his lips before Alfred had the time to realize that, in the current situation, he didn't feel like facing any of his friends. Or that, if something had happened to a relative of his, Tolys had the right to keep it for himself – just like Alfred did.

Unfortunately, Alfred's voice had always been loud, easily carrying across the corridor.

Just as Alfred identified his position, Tolys froze for a moment before turning with almost unbearable slowness towards him. Alfred saw his features go slack, the colour was drained from Tolys's already pale skin. The eyes that finally landed on Alfred were wide in horror.

Even stranger than Tolys reaction was the fact he wasn't alone or with his family. Instead, near him stood Eduard, Raivis, Mikkel, Emil, Lukas, and even Ivan – all wearing identical horrified expression.

 _'Did they have a hockey practice, this morning?'_

Alfred was regretful to realize that he didn't know Matthew's training schedule.

"Alfred, what's going on?" Francis asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alfred tilted his chin towards the group of boys who were still staring at him as if they had seen a ghost.

"They're Mattie's teammates," Alfred explained to Francis, "And Tolys's a friend of mine, he's in my grade. Maybe they had hockey practice, somebody must have gotten hurt…"

Alfred's voice trailed off. He didn't feel like worrying about anybody else, Matthew was draining all his mental resources. On the other hand, now that he had made Tolys aware of his presence, Alfred couldn't just walk away from him when he was probably in a position of distress. Tolys was one of the nicest and most caring people Alfred knew, he didn't deserve it.

In spite of himself, Alfred closed the distance between them in long strides.

"What happened, man? An accident during practice?"

Tolys didn't answer. The mask of horror moulding his features only grew grimmer the closer Alfred got.

"I tried calling at your place," Tolys stated weakly, almost in a plead. "I tried calling at your place and you never answered."

Alfred stilled, ice spreading inside his chest.

"Are you here because of Mattie?" he asked, any pretence of light-heartedness slipping away from his face.

If there was a hockey practice, Matthew not being present would worry his temmates, being late or missing anything without a warning wasn't like him… and nobody answering the phone would certainly be another cause of concern. Going to the hospital to check was a bit of an overreaction, but on the other hand, Alfred knew for certain that Tolys was fully aware of Matthew's health issues. The same was most likely true for Ivan as well, considering that he was the captain.

To Alfred's surprise, Mikkel was the one who talked.

"So, it really was Matthew, after all," he stated in a flat voice, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Fuck…"

Alfred could only stare at him, at the horror spelt out in his widened eyes and slack features. Something was wrong in a way that made Alfred's skin crawl, but his exhausted brain couldn't bring itself to connect the dots.

"Boys, what's going on?" Francis asked sharply, breaking the silence.

The five teens shared a look. With their hunched shoulders, the way they all lowered their heads… there was something in the entire scene that seemed to radiate guilt. Alfred didn't understand.

In the end, Mikkel was once again the one who spoke up, even if he didn't look up from his feet.

"You probably don't know, but I have an older half-brother who's a doctor here. He thinks I'm too reckless, and he often tells me about gruesome stuff he sees at work because he thinks it might keep me in line. It usually doesn't work, but yesterday evening… what he said yesterday evening really hit the nail in the head. He told me that a kid had almost died and was still in the ICU – because his appendix had ruptured after a blow during hockey, and his parents hadn't been able to call for help in time because they didn't even know it had happened."

Mikkel's voice trembled so much that he had to stop talking, he visibly swallowed in order not to burst into tears.

Alfred was frozen on the spot. His stomach churned as the meaning of Mikkel's words sank in.

"Oh…"

 _Hockey._ For some reason, Alfred hadn't connected the dots. He remembered Arthur saying that Matthew had taken a blow to the stomach, but, with more pressing matters in mind, he hadn't lingered on that piece of information. Besides, playing a violent and full-contact sport himself, Alfred knew that taking a few – even strong – blows was inevitable.

The way Matthew's teammates were looking him, however, was… unnatural. There was something horribly _wrong_ in the entire picture, something Alfred couldn't grasp.

"I wrote you," Tolys whispered weakly. "I sent you a message yesterday afternoon, but you never even visualized it…"

His eyes were round and full of sorrow, tearing into Alfred's chest with the awful, unspeakable implication they carried.

Alfred wanted to say something – he _knew_ he had to – but his mouth was dry and his tongue paralyzed. The statics buzzing in his ears filled his brain, smothering any rational thought.

"Okay, that's enough," Francis intervened as he took a step towards Tolys, his hands extended in a placating manner. "Yes, the child you were told about _is_ Matthew. This cannot be denied. However, your guilt is misplaced. I have attended some hockey matches of yours – even _I_ know that taking a hit is nothing out of the ordinary. You couldn't have possibly known it would lead to this. It's tragic, but not your fault. If anything, your coach should have—"

"No."

Alfred's head snapped to Ivan, who had just talked.

Ivan took a step towards him and Francis, opening in his arms in a gesture of surrender. He didn't seem to be able to raise his head or look at them in the eyes.

"No, you don't understand." That voice, so laced with sadness, sounded too soft to belong to Ivan. Almost mournful. "It is _my_ fault. The coach wasn't there, but we decided to train anyway. And… it was me. _I_ accidentally hit Matthew in the stomach. He cried out and fainted. We should have called an ambulance – but, we would have gotten in trouble because the coach wasn't there. So, like a coward, I believed Matthew when he told me he was fine and I didn't press the issue."

Alfred's brain was filled with wool, the blood frozen in his veins. He couldn't speak, couldn't think – all he could do was replay Ivan's words in his head, trying to grasp their meaning.

Francis took a sharp breath, as if trying to say something. His gesture made something click inside Alfred's brain, bringing him back to reality with sickening clarity. His heart started pounding faster and faster as he stared at Ivan's hunched frame – at the way he refused to raise his head.

"Mattie fainted. And you didn't say anything."

The words seemed to come from far away, not from his mouth. The blood pulsed in Alfred's ears, obscuring any other sound.

Ivan raised his head to look at him. He didn't even try to defend himself. He just stared at Alfred, the regret in his violet eyes spelling out his faults.

Something snapped inside Alfred.

Nothing mattered anymore – not Tolys trying to say something, not Francis laying a hand on his shoulder – there was only Ivan in front of him. The person who had just admitted being the reason Matthew was lying on a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

A roar erupted from Alfred's throat. He shook away Francis's hand and lunged at Ivan, not worrying about anything else. The blood roared in his ears, it sang with satisfaction when Alfred's closed fist sank into the meat of Ivan's soft cheek.

But it wasn't enough. Alfred's thundering heart asked for more. He followed Ivan's fall and let his fist land on his face. Ivan's low groan only made rage boil hotter inside Alfred's chest – it was nothing. Not even a whisper, compared to Matthew's wails of agony.

A corner of Alfred's brain registered with bitter surprise that Ivan wasn't fighting back. It felt almost wrong – yet, Alfred couldn't stop. His fist found its mark again, and then again, not stopping even when it struck something hard. The slight pain was welcomed with elation.

At the margin of his dulled hearing, Alfred was vaguely aware of some shouting, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but his pounding heart, the way Ivan's flesh ceded under his fists.

The crazed dream suddenly came to a halt with a strong arm that reached under Alfred's chest and yanked him away from Ivan.

"That's enough!" a strong roared voice at the same time.

Alfred let out a frustrated cry, trying to extend his arms towards Ivan.

"Let me go! He killed my brother! HE KILLED MY BROTHER!"

But the hands didn't relinquish their hold on Alfred. Instead, a pair of lean but muscular arms trapped him against a strong chest.

"Kid, you need to calm down," a familiar, harsh voice ordered, blowing close to Alfred's ear.

He turned his head and met Gilbert's unwavering red eyes.

"But he killed my brother," Alfred repeated dully.

Gilbert didn't move or change expression. He just kept staring at Alfred with his hard, red eyes.

Just as quickly as it had come, the rage festering inside Alfred's chest seemed to evaporate, leaving him numb and exhausted, with his ears ringing.

"Was this what you wanted?" Gilbert snapped at him.

Alfred turned his head to look at his surroundings. Ivan was still on the ground, obscured from Alfred's view by a man and a woman wearing paramedic uniforms. All the other boys were ashen and wide-eyed, standing in circle as granitic, shocked witnesses. There was even a scared-looking middle-aged couple at the end of the corridor. And Francis… Francis was staring right at Alfred, his forehead creased and his eyes heartbroken, not even trying to speak.

The silence was so heavy it was almost deafening. Alfred could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"But he killed my brother."

The words didn't seem to make sense anymore.

Gilbert scoffed.

"This isn't how I was planning to start my day," he muttered under his breath, and then, in a harsher voice, "Follow me."

He gripped Alfred's arm in a tight hold, just shy of hurting, and started leading him across the corridor.

Behind them, Francis spared a last glance at the rest of the boys before following Alfred and Gilbert. He still didn't speak, and when his eyes met Alfred's, he abruptly diverted them. Something bitter stirred inside Alfred's stomach, but he was too numb to acknowledge what it meant.

"What are you looking at? This isn't a show!" Gilbert growled at the couple who had been watching as they walked past them.

Even after the man and the woman scurried away, Alfred felt their doubtful eyes plastered on his back, following and judging him. Part of him wanted to be angry – _it wasn't his fault, not him they were supposed to put the blame on_ – but… did it even matter?

Alfred didn't know the answer anymore. He just let his legs automatically follow Gilbert's lead, keeping his eyes trained on the rubbed tips of his trainers in an attempt not to think.

Dread coiled inside Alfred's stomach as Gilbert took a swift turn and dragged the boy into a room with him. It room was small and empty, only decorated with a plastic chair in the middle, a small desk on the wall next to the door, and some metal shelves covered in chipped white paint. Without any window, the only light source was the aggressive neon flickering on the ceiling, that didn't help the feeling of suffocation created by the walls.

 _What kind of place is this?_

Not a good one, surely. The foreboding in Alfred's stomach was growing heavier with each passing second, making him almost sick.

"Sit," Gilbert ordered in a harsh voice.

Accurately avoiding crossing the man's eyes, Alfred let himself drop on the only chair, his eyes fixed on his knees.

"Now—"

A broken sigh coming from Francis interrupted whatever Gilbert was about to say.

"Alfred, _why_ did you do that?"

Francis dropped to his knees in front of Alfred, his warm hands reaching for the boy's bloodied ones. There was no way for Alfred to escape from the anguish shining in his cousin's too expressive eyes – but with them, the tendrils of rage once again stirred inside his chest.

"Do you even need to ask? You heard what Braginsky said! Matthew is dying, and it's his fault! How could I let this slide?"

Alfred hadn't realized he had screamed, but as he looked at a confirmation in Francis's features, he found himself panting and with his throat hurting. In spite of his effort, there was only a deep sadness in Francis's widened eyes and furrowed forehead.

A click of Gilbert's tongue prompted Alfred to raise his head towards him. He didn't look any different, either, the disappointment had never left his features.

"Don't give me this bullshit, Alfred. I know you're smarter than this." Gilbert's frown deepened. "How is it Ivan's fault? He made a wrong call, that's undeniable. But, he's hardly the only one involved in this mess. Besides, from what I heard, _Matthew_ was the one who insisted he was fine."

Ice encased Alfred's chest. For a moment that seemed to expand in a century in the stillness of the room, he was unable to breathe.

"Are you saying…" he managed to choke out in the end, "Are you trying to say that it was Matthew's fault? Is this what you're trying to imply?"

Alfred's hands clenched into fists without him even being aware they were doing it. His muscles were tense and ready to jump – but Gilbert's red eyes seemed to bear into his very soul, keeping him still in place.

"What I'm trying to say," Gilbert enunciated slowly, never once breaking eye-contact, "Is that every person is responsible and nobody is. This is a lot of mistakes piling up and resulting in tragedy, not the oversight of a single person. It's unfair of you to blame all this on Ivan – or anybody else, for that matter. Regardless, even if Ivan _were_ responsible, this doesn't justify your behaviour. The moment you assault a person and it's not self-defence is the moment you've stepped over the line."

Alfred gritted his teeth until they hurt. He wanted to blame Ivan and Gilbert to be wrong with such longing that his chest ached – but there was something sour inside him that knew better.

"And why should I listen to you now?" he spat out, matching Gilbert's frown with the most impressive scowl he could muster. "You lied to me."

Finally, a flicker of confusion breached through Gilbert's stony features, softening them.

"What are you talking about? I certainly did _not_."

Ignoring Francis's smooth hands over his ones, Alfred squeezed his fists to give himself strength.

"And here you are, still denying it! Why—" Alfred's voice hitched, but he couldn't let it stop him. "Why did you say that me forgetting about the antibiotic didn't make things any worse? Matthew is dying! Why do you feel like you need to coddle us?! Why—"

"But Alfred, it wasn't that missed dose of antibiotic that caused everything, that much is clear even to me…" Francis's soft voice interrupted him.

His gentle, reassuring hands tried to pry Alfred ones open, to convey Francis's support with their warm touch.

Without sparing a single glance at his cousin, Alfred shook them away and folded his arms across his chest in a sharp gesture. Of course, Francis didn't know. But Gilbert did, no matter how good he was at warping his features in a convincing display of confusion. He was the one Alfred kept staring at as he spewed out in a hoarse voice the knowledge that had been eroding him.

"No. I know it didn't cause anything, I'm not stupid. But everything would have been better if I had remembered! And you know why? Ten percent every hour."

Gilbert's eyes finally lit in understanding. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to stop screaming.

"When a person is in shock, that's how much the chance of survival decreases if the treatment is delayed. Ten percent every hour! If I had woken up Matthew for his antibiotic when I had to, I would have realized he was sick three hours earlier! It becomes a thirty percent! Or maybe it's incremental and it's actually less than thirty percent but it doesn't matter it's still a bit better— and it could have actually been even better! I woke up at four, if I had checked on Matthew before getting to the living room we wouldn't be in this situation at all _Jesus_ can't you see it's all my fault everything would have been a lot better if I had just noticed…"

Alfred's voice broke into a loud sob. Unable to restrain any more the hot tears pressing against his eyelids, he bent over and buried his face into his hands, shaking.

"Oh, Alfred, no!"

Francis's anguished voice accompanied him wrapping his arms around Alfred. Francis squeezed tightly, rocking Alfred back and forth and running his fingers through his hair.

Yet, Alfred couldn't allow his body to wallow in the comforting gestures. Blaming Ivan had been a sweet reprieve. Unfortunately, as Gilbert had said, Alfred was a smart boy. Too smart not to realize that he had just as much responsibility as Ivan did.

Not even able to summon enough strength to pry away from Francis's touch, Alfred could only sob harder.

"It's not your fault, _mon petit_. It isn't, you didn't know. You couldn't have…" Francis kept saying, as if saying the words out loud would turn them into the truth.

"Ten percent every hour, you say? I must say you did your research; I'm impressed. But you missed a detail— that's only _after_ a person goes into shock. Matthew was just starting to when we loaded him into the ambulance."

Gilbert's words, said in a matter-of-fact tone, were so absurd that Alfred stopped crying and looked up at him.

"Come again?"

Gilbert stared right at him. There was no sign of deception in his angular features, only the harsh reality.

"I didn't lie to you. Would have Matthew been better if you had realized he was sick earlier? Of course he would have. He would have been better if Arthur had come up and woken him up on his own, too. Or if Ivan hadn't trusted his word and decided to take him to the ER at the right moment. But, he would have also been worse if you had taken a bit longer to realize he was feeling sick. If we had been held up by traffic. There are so many different factors coming into play… You made a mistake, but so did everybody in this situation – and yes, this includes Matthew as well. Beating yourself up over this is no use. Actually, you called just in time to give Matthew any chance of survival at all."

Alfred felt himself deflate. This time, he didn't shy away from Francis's touch.

"But…"

Could it really be true? Shrugging off the guilt like that felt too easy. Where was the punishment he deserved? Yet, there was no lie in Gilbert's eyes.

Gilbert sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Listen. I understand how hard this is for you. Believe me when I say that I truly, completely do. But hear me out: no matter how bad you feel, this doesn't mean it's your fault. Or anybody else's, for that matter. Beating yourself up over this isn't going to accomplish anything but make Matthew feel bad for what he has caused once he recovers."

Gilbert's last words brought a sour taste to Alfred's mouth. He wasn't even considering the option of Matthew surviving the ordeal… it was too early, it felt too much like hanging onto impossible hopes. At the same time, it truly was something he should have considered.

He let his body list against Francis's side. Everything was too much, too confusing. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Gilbert sighed again.

"Listen. I'd love to keep talking to you but I'm running late, I cannot stay here. But I really think we should have a chat. At the bar, tomorrow, at half past eight?"

Gilbert only waited for Alfred to nod before turning on his heels and marching out of the room in purposeful confidence, letting a heavy silence fall behind him.

Alfred didn't know what to do or what to say, his brain felt wrapped in slime. He didn't have to, for Francis was the one who talked, after having taken a deep breath.

"Why didn't you mention you were feeling like this?"

His voice was almost nauseatingly sweet, it made Alfred's stomach stir uncomfortably. He shrugged.

"Because you would have tried to convince me that it wasn't true," he said with brutal honesty, too drained for lies. "I mean, you heard what Gilbert said."

Francis sighed again – a long, weary sound. To avoid witnessing the sadness written in his cousin's too expressive features, Alfred kept his eyes trained on a spot on the wall.

"But Alfred, nobody is blaming you. You couldn't have known. So many people were involved…"

In spite of the heavy lump in his throat, Alfred tensed and willed himself not to swallow. He couldn't manifest his turmoil, or Francis was going to insist.

Part of what Francis had said _was_ right, many people were bearing the heavy responsibility of Matthew's condition: Arthur was one, and, as Alfred had just learned, there was also Ivan and the entire hockey team, probably, even the teachers who had failed to notice Matthew's distress in the morning… that didn't extinguish Alfred's fault, however. Besides, _Arthur_ had been the one calling the ambulance, Alfred had just panicked. He kept his eyes away from Francis and didn't answer.

"That's why you reacted so violently against Ivan, isn't it?"

Francis's words, said with the utmost softness, took Alfred out of surprise. In spite of himself, he turned sharply towards his cousin.

"What?"

"You weren't only angry at Ivan. You also wished he would hurt you so you could be punished."

Under Francis's eyes, so sharp and full of understanding, Alfred suddenly felt young and naked. He couldn't answer, but he had to. He was trapped.

"I would have deserved it," he managed to croak past the lump in his throat. "You can say all you want, but it is my fault, Francis. It really—"

Before Alfred had the time to finish talking, he was enveloped by a pair of strong arms and pressed against a lean chest.

"It's not. Nobody but yourself thinks it is," Francis stated firmly.

 _This isn't true. I'm sure Arthur will agree with me, once he snaps out of it. He was the one who asked me if my stupid tantrum was more important than Matthew's life – and what happened was the clearest answer he could have ever gotten._

But Alfred was weak, he couldn't deny any longer the comfort Francis's warm body offered or the tears stinging against his eyelids. He tightened his fists around the fabric of his cousin's coat and let himself melt against him, boneless, his chest convulsing with the sobs.

Alfred might not have meant to, but Matthew was still going to die. There was no coming back.

When Alfred's sobs had finally wilted into soft sniffles, Francis straightened up and detached himself from him, but he kept his hand on Alfred's arm. He said nothing, only offered him a tissue that Alfred used to dry away the tears and blow his nose.

"You should go and see Arthur, he might be worried," Alfred commented before Francis could say anything else.

He was too drained to talk about feelings and responsibilities, he knew he would have shattered.

Part of him only wanted to take place on a chair next to Matthew's bed and wait to see whether time would bring atonement or condemnation – yet, his turmoil was still too evident. Even without a mirror, Alfred knew that his eyes must be red and puffy, his cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. Arthur might have worried, which he didn't deserve to.

Francis, instead, looked mostly decent, in spite of the unnatural hint of red in his eyes.

Francis stiffened, hesitating.

"I don't think you should be alone right now," he admitted at last, his gentle words tugging at Alfred's heartstring in an almost painful way.

He shook his head and swallowed in an attempt to hold back another fresh wave of tears.

"You _have to_ see Arthur. He knew we were going to come, he must be thinking that something happened to us as well."

Francis gave a slow nod of assent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"That's true," he said, almost to himself. "And I guess that simply writing a message wouldn't help much, he must be so high-strung that he'll think something bad has happened, he needs to see one of us…"

Francis's voice trailed off. His eyes, that had drifted up as he formulated the sentence, focused back on Alfred, clear in determination.

"Fine. I'll go and talk to Arthur."

Alfred's nod was stopped mid-motion as Francis raised his right hand.

" _But_ at one condition: in the meantime, I want you to go and apologize to Ivan. You'll reach Arthur, Matthew, and I after that."

Alfred's heart missed a beat.

"Are you serious?"

The determined glimmer in Francis's eyes showed that he, indeed, was.

"Deadly. I guess he must be in the waiting room of the ER, we'll go find him together."

 _That_ couldn't do. A wave of protests and apologies welled up in Alfred's chest, ready to burst out – but after all, did Alfred deserve to be spared from that humiliation? Even worse, another discussion would just delay Francis and potentially increase Arthur's distress.

Letting out a deep breath, Alfred deflated.

"Yeah. Okay. As long as you just go to Arthur instead of staying and waiting to see what happens."

After Francis had answered with a solemn nod, Alfred got up and followed his cousin out of the room, with his shoulders hunched and dragging his feet. Every cell of his body screamed in reluctance – but apologizing to Ivan might be the first step towards atonement, so Alfred gritted his teeth and swallowed down further complaints.

Just like Francis had predicted, Ivan was sitting on a plastic chair of the waiting room, with a bloodied tissue pressed under his nose. In spite of all the people around, his statuesque frame was hard to miss, immediately capturing Alfred's eyes.

The knot to his stomach grew even tighter as he realized that the other boys on the hockey team were still present as well, occupying the seats next to Ivan or standing around them. A pale and worn-out look was shared across their faces.

Alfred froze, hesitating. His throat was painfully dry, he wanted nothing more than bolt out of the room – he almost did, tethering on his feet. Then, Ivan raised his head and his swollen eyes focused on Alfred.

All the voices and yells around Alfred seemed to fade into a background buzzing.

Now, he could clearly see the extent of the damage he had caused. Ivan's right eye was already red and purple, almost swollen shut, and the other wasn't far behind. The pale skin made the dark marks on his cheeks stand out even more, almost accusing Alfred with their silent yet undeniable presence. A tissue hid Ivan's nose, but the red splotches on it left nothing to the imagination.

Alfred's knuckles seemed to throb at the sight.

 _Did I really do that?_

It seemed fake, more belonging to a nightmare than reality. A wicked voice in a corner of Alfred's brain whispered that Ivan deserved it, that he had hurt Matthew – but now that Alfred was looking at the bruised face, it felt more like an excuse not to accept his own guilt than a justification.

Swallowing, Alfred took a step towards Ivan.

"I—"

"I'm so sorry," Ivan preceded him in a soft, regretful voice.

With the lump in his throat so big that he was unable to talk, Alfred could only shake his head as he staggered towards Ivan. Inside his chest, where rage had once resided, there was now only emptiness.

Acknowledging only with a grateful nod the way Tolys jumped up, Alfred let his body sink in the chair next to Ivan.

"How bad is it?" he asked, pointing at Ivan's nose with a tilt of his chin.

Ivan shrugged.

"Not so bad. I have to get x-rays as precaution, but nothing should be broken." There was a slight catch in his voice, a hesitation. "How's Matthew?"

Alfred shook his head and looked down at his knees.

"Still alive," was all he could bring himself to say, and his voice still broke on the last syllable.

Nobody else dared to intervene. In spite of the noise inside the room, the silence that welled up around them pressed like a brick against Alfred's chest.

At last, Ivan talked again.

"I'm so sorry."

The usual three empty words – empty in meaning, but laced with earnest regret. Being angry at Ivan would have been easier, but Alfred could no longer hide from the truth.

"Yeah. So am I. Even if none of you said anything, I should have noticed there was something wrong with Matthew."

"We all should have," Tolys echoed in a tremulous voice.

His words shattered something inside of Alfred. Tears once again welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Alfred hastily wiped his face with his sleeve, but it was all he could do not to completely fall apart.

When Ivan's heavy hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed it, Alfred didn't shy away. Instead, he took a deep breath and accepted the tissue Ivan offered him with a weak nod.

Whether they wanted or not, Alfred and Ivan were in there together, weighted down by a similar mistake. Alfred knew he had to reach Francis, but he found himself lingering for a moment in the presence of the other boys around him.

* * *

"You should eat something, Arthur."

Unwilling to bend to Tiina's maternal voice, Arthur pushed the tray with the breakfast away from him.

"I'm fine."

Sure, the slight headache pounding behind his forehead wasn't pleasant, and neither was the dull ache pervading his muscles after the night passed awake and too tense to relax. They faded to nothing if compared to the pain Matthew had suffered, however. Arthur had no right to complain about anything.

He rose from the chair at the desk and went back to the one next to his little brother, trying to study his face from closer. The same grey pallor, the same ventilator… nothing seemed to have changed. After the morning check, Dr Oxenstierna had said that Matthew's vital had slightly improved – something about his blood pressure being slightly higher and the fever finally lowered – but it still wasn't enough to declare him out of danger.

Arthur brushed a curl away from Matthew's hot forehead. After a good part of the night spent incessantly talking to his little brother and begging him not to give up, Arthur could find no more words.

"You're not helping him by letting yourself deteriorate like this, you know," Tiina commented lightly.

Arthur didn't even answer her. After she had come back in the morning, Tiina seemed to have decided that her job entailed not only taking care of Matthew but making sure that Arthur was healthy as well. Arthur could already tell it was going to be a hard war to win, but he didn't have enough energy to complain.

In an automatic motion, he gave a throwaway glance to his phone. Panic closed off his throat as he realized what time it was.

"Matthew can have visitors now, can he?" he blurted out, snapping back to Tiina.

The nurse nodded, her eyebrows rising in confusion.

"Yes, as long as nothing takes a turn for the worse, he can have visitors from nine am. If you agree on letting them in, of course, and if they don't have any disease—"

"This means Alfred and Francis should be here. Is there any reason they might have been kept waiting in the lounge?"

If Arthur had one certainty about Alfred, it was that he wouldn't want to waste any instant he could have spent at Matthew's side. But it was already twenty past nine, and Alfred wasn't present.

Arthur's head spun with the realization, he couldn't breathe.

 _Did something happen to him as well?_

Arthur couldn't believe he had needed so long to notice. He stared at Tiina as her features scrunched up in concern.

"They might have been held back for a check if suspected of carrying any disease… What's wrong?"

Before Arthur could answer, the door was pushed open, revealing Francis's frame.

A wave of relief washed over Arthur, yet, before he could relax fully, he realized that the man was alone. Another bubble of concern welled up inside his chest.

"Where's Alfred?" he asked, more harshly than he had intended.

Francis raised his eyebrows.

"Well, good morning to you as well."

Arthur did not have the patience to deal with Francis on normal basis. With everything that was going on, he could almost feel his nerves snapping.

"Does this look like the right moment pleasantries for you? Where. Is. Alfred?"

Francis let out a long sigh.

"He's coming in a few minutes."

The way he was looking at Arthur stirred uneasiness in his stomach. There was something Francis wasn't saying, and it probably was something important.

 _Does Alfred not want to come inside because I'm here as well?_

Arthur knew that Alfred must be enraged with him. He hadn't thought it would prevent Alfred from wanting to see Matthew, however. The situation was worse than he had imagined – and in truth, he couldn't blame Alfred a single bit.

"How is he doing?" he asked anyway.

Francis sighed again and rubbed his forehead with a fist.

"Do you want an honest answer? He's not doing well, Arthur."

Arthur didn't know why he had been hoping in anything different. They were living in a nightmare – a nightmare they had already experienced, which surely wouldn't improve Alfred's reaction. Yet, part of him had almost been hoping that Francis's answer would be another one. Having that last hope torn away felt like a stone dropping inside his stomach.

Arthur took a deep breath. His throat was almost closed off, but he swallowed and forced himself to talk. He knew he had to.

"Would… would Alfred come in if I stepped away for a bit?"

Leaving Matthew's side was the last thing Arthur wanted. In spite of that, Alfred deserved to see his brother as well – perhaps, more than Arthur himself did.

Francis furrowed his brow.

"What are you talking about?"

Arthur had to clench his fists as another wave of irritation made his stomach churn. Francis was the last person he wished to reveal his insecurities and sins to… yet, Francis was the only person present.

 _I have to do this. For Alfred._

"Stop playing dumb. Where's all the sensitivity you always prattle you possess? Fake obliviousness doesn't suit you. But well, if you really want me to spell this out loud, then I won't step back. I know Alfred is furious at me for letting this tragedy befall on Matthew. So, I'll ask you one more time, and I want a straight answer: does Alfred want me to leave the room in order to spend some time alone with Matthew?"

Francis kept staring at Arthur as if he were an alien being, his eyes wide.

"Oh, _nom d'une pipe…_ " he muttered at last, running a hand through his hair. "This—"

Arthur's blood boiled with irritation.

"Are you going to answer or—"

"That's ridiculous! Furious at you?" Francis scoffed at Arthur. Anger quickly replaced the incredulity encased in his features. "Furious at you! And you talk about my sensitivity, but do you have any yourself? Furious at you! That boy who just sobbed in my arms because he thought you wouldn't forgive him! And you don't even want to see him…"

Arthur took an involuntary step back, suddenly feeling small in comparison to Francis's taller frame.

"He's the one who doesn't want to see me," he tried to reason, "He couldn't even look at me in the eyes, it was clear—"

"That's because he was feeling guilty!" Francis snapped, before shaking his head and continuing in a calmer voice, "What a mess… you must talk to him, Arthur. Right now, he thinks you're blaming him for the mess with the antibiotic and everything else as well!"

"But I'm not," was all Arthur could say, his voice pathetically weak.

It was enough.

"Aren't you? Truly?"

Francis and Arthur simultaneously turned towards the door, starting. Neither of them had heard Alfred come in – but there he stood, with a lost expression and tears glistening in his eyes.

Something inside Arthur's chest seemed to shatter.

"Of course I'm not. I could never."

When he automatically opened his arms towards Alfred, his brother almost flung himself at him and clung to his neck. He was trembling.

But this time, instead of doing nothing, Arthur reciprocated Alfred's embrace with the same intensity.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into his ear, petting Alfred's hair the way he had when they were both much younger. "I'm so sorry. Alfred, I do not blame you. I swear I don't."

Alfred didn't answer, but his arms tightened their hold.

Arthur couldn't even begin to think how bad he had unintentionally made his brother feel. First, he had allowed Matthew's illness to go untreated for long that he had almost killed him, then, he had denied Alfred the comfort he deserved in such a critical moment.

 _My God, how much did I mess up?_

 **(word count: 8,293)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

Laura is Belgium  
Iryna is Ukraine  
Mikkel is Denmark  
Tiina (short for Kristiina) is Nyo Finland

If you have any question or want any update on my writing, you can also find me on tumblr (feynavaley)!

Until next time! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Here we are again, finally. Thank you all for your encouragement and kind words, it really means a lot. <3

 **Warnings** **:** The usual about me not being a medical professional and some characters thinking that they know better than they actually do in regard to medical issues.

I really hope you'll enjoy the chapter! And if you can, please review. :)

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

Arthur observed his boys from a corner of the room.

The gentle rise and fall of Matthew's chest under the white sheets – aided by the ventilator, that much was true. And, at the same time, it was still moving. The vitals were still weak; the fever a bit too high, the blood pressure a bit too low (and that was all Arthur could understand and he was too afraid to ask for any specifications for anything he might discover would probably make things worse) but the monitors weren't an ominous, empty black.

A rational corner of Arthur's brain knew that they had been lucky. Matthew wasn't out of the woods yet – but the fact alone he wasn't dead and his conditions hadn't worsened was nothing short of a miracle. Things had started going downhill so fast… a few more minutes, and there could have been nothing to do.

Arthur knew that because he had been told so – repeatedly – by Dr Oxenstierna, Dr Wang, Tiina herself, and Gilbert Beilschmidt via Francis, apparently.

Arthur still couldn't bring himself to believe their words. _"Sometimes, there is luck in misery_ ," Francis had said – a clear encouragement to see the silver lining in their situation.

Arthur didn't agree with him. Even if it came with pretty packaging and a consolation card, rotten luck was still rotten luck. In an even crueller twist, rotten luck wasn't the sole culprit to blame.

Of course, there was no denying that Matthew had always been unlucky. Yet, it was something that could be worked around. Arthur not noticing he had been feeling sick – for days, most likely, which notion made his stomach churn – wasn't an issue of bad luck. No matter what everybody around Arthur kept insisting, with their pitying eyes and sickeningly soft smiles, that was neglect. Pure and simple neglect.

Then, of course, there was Alfred.

Alfred who was now sitting on the chair in front of Matthew's bed, slightly bent over his little brother. His fingers threaded through Matthew's hair in a gentle, soothing motion as he talked. It was mostly a stream of memories, fragmented recollections of the good time they had spent together. Of how strong and determined Matthew had managed to be, so many times. And Alfred's voice, for once, was soft and rich instead of too loud. Laced with such tenderness that it reached Arthur's chest like a stab.

He had almost forgotten Alfred could talk like that.

In fact, there were many things Arthur had forgotten about Alfred. When had he started seeing his younger brother as an edgy and rebellious teen – _as an opponent he needed to defeat_ – instead of he the kind-hearted, if a bit overzealous, boy Arthur _knew_ him to be?

Many small accidents had started forming a rift between them. Stubbornness – on both their parts – had dug it deeper. The constant pressure and stress weighting down on Arthur's shoulders certainly hadn't put him in the right mood for negotiations, either – but that wasn't an excuse.

On the other hand, pretending that Alfred was without faults would be disingenuous as well. Alfred had taken plenty of wrong decisions, lately. The matter with his failing grades and unwillingness to put any effort into school – for how Arthur was still convinced to be in the right – was no more than a triviality, if confronted with everything else that had happened. During that sleepless night, Arthur's thought has lingered several times on what Alfred had confessed the previous day. For how firmly he had held his conviction that Alfred's brief companionship with those wretched Jones twins had been a mistake, Arthur hadn't been aware of the full entity. If he let it sink, the fear for what had happed to Matthew – _and how much worse it might have been_ – made him feel ill and shaky. In spite of the evident regret Alfred had displayed, Arthur doubted he had truly grasped how severe the episode had been. That was something he alone was accountable for.

Yet, Alfred had never had ill intentions. Guilt didn't shine so bright in the eyes of somebody who did. Alfred had simply been – and still was – a boy who had acted on the impulse to follow what he thought was right, too young to fully grasp the consequences and implications of his actions. A boy who, as it was natural at his age, was still in need of the guidance of an adult to make his way through life.

Arthur should have been that person.

And Arthur had utterly, irredeemably failed.

The issue wasn't that Arthur hadn't tried – but he hadn't been enough. There was more to being a paternal figure than stern rules, groundings, and punishments. There was a balance to be found – a balance Arthur had failed to accomplish on the ground of not even realizing he needed to. Perhaps, being too young himself played a part in it.

Four years earlier, the day of George and their mother's funeral, Alistair had tried to warn Arthur about it. Arthur still had a perfect recollection of the rage that had tightened his chest at those words. Lately, they had come to his mind a lot, accompanied by Alistair's solemn eyes. He had always dismissed them. But now, a painful weight dropped to the bottom of his stomach as he finally realized how right Alistair had been.

Arthur had been – _and still was_ – too young to be qualified as an adequate caretaker. Alfred had Matthew should have never been entrusted in hands.

"Arthur?"

Alfred's hesitant voice jerked Arthur back to reality, making him realize that he had completely lost focus of his surroundings.

Alfred had turned his head and looked at him, his blue eyes soft and vulnerable in a way Arthur hadn't seen in a long time. Years, maybe.

He swallowed down the bile that scorched his throat and forced his stiff lips to curl into a pitiful resemblance of a smile.

"Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"

"You know, I was thinking… Everybody says we should keep talking to Mattie. But, it feels kind of... pointless after a bit. I know I'm rambling, I'm hardly making any sense at all. So… What about reading something to him? And… I could do it myself, I guess. But you're really good at reading out loud, so…"

Arthur cursed himself for his lack of foresight. In spite of Alfred's usual chattiness, talking to Matthew's unresponsive form took a heavy toll on him. Arthur should have known, he had had to face the same feeling of powerlessness for the entire night.

"Of course," he answered readily, plastering a small smile on his face. Inwardly, he slapped himself. That wasn't the right moment to focus on _his_ own issues. "Did you have anything in mind?"

Alfred's hopeful expression fell.

"Oh… no, not really. I could have gotten something from home, but…"

 _"I didn't think about it,"_ his regretful eyes finished for him as his voice trailed off.

 _Why_ had Arthur ever wanted Alfred to bear more responsibilities? Alfred wasn't an adult. His shoulders shouldn't curve down under a weight he wasn't old enough to carry.

"There's a library in the paediatric ward," Tiina's soft voice intervened, "We don't have too many titles, but it's still better than nothing… You might find something of your liking."

"Oh…" Arthur needed a moment to shake himself. "Yes, I think that could work. Francis said he would stay in the lounge, didn't he? I'll text him and ask him if he can bring us something."

Arthur's fingers dove into his pants' pocket in an automatic motion, just to find it empty. He stilled in confusion.

"You left your phone on the side table," Alfred informed him, waving the device.

By the time Arthur had processed his words, his younger brother had already finished composing the message. Arthur still couldn't recall getting the phone out or placing it on the side table.

 _Damnit, I'm starting to slip._

It was probably due to the sleepless night, but he couldn't afford to. Trying to compose himself, he shook his head and then turned towards Tiina.

"Thank you."

The nurse was already back to working at the charts on her tablet.

"You're welcome. As I have already told you, I'm here for everything you may need," she said in a gentle, smooth voice, without raising her head.

Arthur knew that she was implying much more than simple material assistance. During the previous afternoon, she had tried multiple times to get him to talk. She had never been too pressuring, but Arthur wasn't fooled by her soft exterior. In her eyes, shone the iron will of a mother. She wasn't going to give up.

But neither was Arthur. With Matthew still so sick, his own mental state was the last of his concerns.

Perhaps, Alfred could benefit from Tiina's support instead. While he seemed to have mostly calmed down from his earlier crying fit, Arthur wasn't going to delude himself into thinking his little brother could be past such a traumatic experience.

"Francis said he's going to get something," Alfred reported as a placed the phone back on the side table.

The silence stretched between them. Arthur tried to stir his brain for something to say, only to find it empty. The constant throbbing behind his forehead didn't help his concentration, but Arthur wasn't naïve enough to pin it down as the sole responsible. It had been so long since he had carried out a normal conversation with Alfred…

At last, Alfred broke the silence as he took a deep breath and straightened up.

"And while we're waiting… I guess there's something I should tell you."

Alfred sat rigid, with his hands clenched over his knees. The determination he had schooled his features in couldn't completely hide the small glint of fear in the eyes that looked straight at Arthur.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat.

After the revelation of the previous day, he wasn't sure he was ready for something similar… but Alfred himself had decided to confide in him. It was a big step, Arthur couldn't show him any rejection. He forced his neck to bend into a small nod of assent, hoping his feature wouldn't show his inner perturbation.

Arthur took another deep breath to stall the confession, he ran a hand through his hair in a nervous motion before talking.

"I guess Francis didn't tell you why we were late, did he?"

A pang of guilt flared up in Arthur's stomach. After his initial supposition that Alfred must have been trying to avoid him had been proved wrong, he hadn't spared a second thought to the issue. How had he allowed himself to forget so easily?

Alfred must have extrapolated the answer from his expression, for his eyes widened in surprise.

"Wow, he really didn't, then. He must have been waiting for me to tell you… I thought so since you didn't mention anything, but that's kind of unlike Francis… wow. But, well… anyway. While we were getting in, I ran into Braginsky and some other teammates of Mattie's…"

Arthur's brow rose in confusion. _And what about it?_

A moment later, his tired brain provided the answer. His eyes widened, and Alfred's lips curled into a wry smile at his reaction.

"Before you ask, yes, they were here to check on Mattie. Apparently, they were supposed to have hockey practice this morning. When Mattie didn't show up and nobody answered the phone or anything, they were afraid something bad had happened. Because, you know how the doctors said Matthew's ruptured appendix might have been caused by a blow during hockey?"

Arthur was aware of that, but he had regarded it as a piece of little importance, with so much more pressing matters in his mind. He had spared his thoughts to it just to picture Matthew getting a blow and then trying to hide his pain as if nothing had happened, like all the other times he had been hit while playing and he had turned out to be fine, if a bit bruised (in spite of the way Arthur's heart had stopped beating for a moment any time he had witnessed it). Nothing relevant enough for anybody to take notice. They would have called for help, otherwise. Yet, if Matthew's teammates' first thought had been to check at the hospital…

"Well, looks like it didn't go unnoticed. Mattie screamed and fainted."

Arthur held his breath. For a moment, he thought he must have heard wrong – but Alfred went on talking, his voice steady.

"But when he recovered, he insisted he was fine. I don't know how they could have bought it—"

"But the coach!" Arthur blurted out in a strangled gasp, unable to hide the incredulity from his words. "The coach told me they would take any sign of potential injury seriously, that the parents would be alerted and medical help called! He _assured_ me that in person, otherwise, I would have never let Matthew play! How could a person fainting be overlooked?"

Alfred winced.

"I guess he said that, didn't he?"

Only at that moment, Arthur recalled that Alfred had been a strong advocate for Matthew playing hockey – something about him building character and laying off steam. His continuous pestering _had_ been a heavy factor in slowly eroding Arthur's resolve of not letting Matthew play.

"Well, he might have… but apparently, the coach wasn't there. But they still did the practice, and when Matthew got hurt, they let themselves be convinced that he was going to be fine and let him go on. Just like that."

For a moment, Arthur could only gape at Alfred. Then, the true meaning of his words slowly sank into his brain. There was a soft gasp at his left – the first indication of surprise Tiina had ever given – but Arthur barely registered it. The astonishment turned into anger, making his blood boil.

"What's the meaning of this?! Were they out of their minds?! Playing hockey is dangerous enough – but without adult supervision?! It's against every school rule!"

Arthur turned his head towards Matthew. He was still lying on that cursed bed, with his cheeks hollow and his skin grey, his features slack. First, in immeasurable pain, and now, barely alive. Depending on machines for something that should have been as natural as breathing.

His appendix would have needed medical care in any case – but Matthew could have been awake. His eyes tired and foggy from the pain relievers, but open. His too pale lips curling into a faint smile to reassure his brothers that he was fine, even if he still wasn't. His fingers, still clumsy from the anaesthesia, fumbling to reciprocate Arthur's hold around his hand.

All that. All that would have been possible, if only a group of teens hadn't decided they were above the rules and prioritized an extracurricular activity over the health of a young boy.

Arthur wanted at the same time to scream and to be sick. His ears were buzzing.

"You aren't going to be as foolish as to blame those children for this, are you?"

The smooth voice made Arthur start. He whirled towards the door to meet Francis's face – set in the determination as he stood at the doorway, with his arms crossed and a blue book held against his chest.

"Only two people can stay inside," Tiina remarked automatically, her voice strangely weak.

Francis nodded.

"I won't step in. But I cannot let you go on with this nonsense either, Arthur. The kids made a mistake – but they _didn't know_. Just like you didn't know when you left in the morning without checking on Matthew. You cannot pin the blame on them, Arthur."

Francis's words were like a punch to Arthur's chest.

 _Whatever they did, Matthew wouldn't have attended the practice at all if I had noticed he was feeling sick – as I should have._

That didn't mean they were innocent, however.

"I was furious when I found out," Alfred chimed in hesitantly, "I punched Braginsky in the face. That's why we ended up being late."

Alfred's eyes were bright with fear, everything in his stance conveyed remorse.

 _'Good,'_ Arthur was about to snarl.

A bitter corner of his brain reprimanded Arthur for his hypocrisy – wasn't he always telling Alfred down for being too irrational? – but he smothered it down. That was _Matthew_ they were talking about. Their sweet little brother who had to be protected, who didn't deserve anything bad happening to him. For once, Alfred had been right.

Then, Arthur's eyes met Francis's hard stare. Rationality once again took control of him, spreading cold inside his chest.

 _This isn't the example I want to set for Alfred._

Besides, Francis was right. Arthur couldn't extinguish his own guilt by pouring it over somebody else's shoulders.

"But that was horrible," Alfred continued in a small voice. The way he looked at Arthur was almost like a call for help. "Because Braginsky didn't defend himself and he just… took it. I really don't know what I could have done to him, if I hadn't been stopped. And that… that really wouldn't have been right. It was… it was so awful, Arthur. I was scared."

Alfred was trembling. Tears welled up at the corners of his bright, earnest eyes.

Arthur's heart shattered.

"It's all right," he said, walking towards Alfred. "You apologized, didn't you?"

At Alfred's small, weak nod, Arthur offered him a gentle smile.

"Then it's all right. Clearly, hitting Ivan was wrong – but you have been under intense distress, I think a misstep can be forgiven. And if you owned up to it and learnt from it, you've got nothing more to apologize for."

Arthur enveloped Alfred in a hug. His younger brother wrapped his own arms around him and buried his head against Arthur's stomach. He didn't cry, this time, but he was trembling heavily. Arthur rubbed circles on his back.

"Have you calmed down, now?" Francis asked at last from the doorway.

Arthur let out a tired exhale.

On the bed, Matthew hadn't moved, oblivious to all the commotion going around him. Was there even any point in wasting energy on finding somebody else to blame before Arthur knew for certain what would become of him?

"My reaction was exaggerated," he admitted. Apologizing to Francis felt like acid corroding his mouth – but Arthur would have to suffer a lot worse, if he ever wanted to be absolved for his sins. "And I won't berate Ivan or any other of the boys for this. That said – by deciding to practise without their coach, they expressly went against the rules. This time, it had horrible consequences, but it would have been wrong anyway. Disciplinary actions against this need to be taken."

Inside Arthur's embrace, Alfred stiffened.

"They're just kids, Arthur," Francis said with a tired sight.

"Ivan's only two years younger than me," Arthur pointed out, scowling. "Or even one, actually. If I'm not mistaken, he was born in December. He's not far from turning nineteen. Doesn't sound like much of a child to me."

The maturity gap was made wider by Arthur being a college student and Ivan still attending high school. Nevertheless, Arthur couldn't bring himself to think about Ivan as a child.

Francis only regarded him with a pitying look. The three-year difference between the two of them had never seemed more significant.

At last, the silence was broken by a voice Arthur wouldn't have expected.

"I'm sorry, but I must say I'm with Arthur on this," declared Tiina, "What they did was incredibly reckless. I'm not saying the boys should be blamed for the outcome, but they should have never decided to practice without supervision. They should all know better. This should be brought up to the school administration – the team should be at least on probation."

Everybody gaped at Tiina. She hadn't spoken unkindly, nor did she look aggressive – but there was something threatening in her scowl. Arthur found himself thinking that he wouldn't have liked crossing her.

Tiina gave a soft smile at their reaction.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten so incensed. But, in a way, I am personally involved in this – I wasn't sure before, but since you mentioned Ivan Braginsky… My younger cousins are on the same hockey team. And I am appalled that they took such a dangerous decision. They might not be old, but they should definitely know better. I _will_ be talking to their parents about this."

Arthur had the strong impression that somebody was going to be grounded for life. It was only fair, of course. Then, why didn't it make him feel any better?

The answer came with Alfred's voice.

"They already all feel awful, anyway. And… in their defence, Tolys apparently did try to warn us of what had happened. He said he had left me a message on the phone. But my phone wasn't available, so…"

A weight plummeted to the bottom of Arthur's stomach. His limbs turned into heavy stones.

 _Alfred's phone…_

 _Arthur_ had been the one getting the phone away from Alfred. At the time, it had looked like a just punishment, even if a bit too stern. Now, it was another piece completing the dreadful puzzle that was getting clearer and clearer in front of Arthur's eyes.

 _If only I hadn't been so unreasonable…_

"Nobody is trying to say it's their fault, honey," Tiina stated. Her voice managed to be firm without losing any of its sweetness. "They certainly didn't mean this to happen. It's a very unfortunate accident – but still an accident. That said, they shouldn't have been playing hockey in the first place. They all proved that they weren't mature enough to foresee the potential consequences of their transgression – and this _needs_ to be addressed."

Arthur almost wanted to scream.

 _And what about me? How can you look at me in the eyes and tell me it's not my fault?_

But Alfred's fingers were still grasping his sweater. He felt lost, vulnerable. If Arthur let his temper get the best of him, he would once again leave his little brother alone.

He swallowed bile.

"Mattie's going to feel awful if the team ends up being dismantled because of this," Alfred commented in a small voice.

 _'If he doesn't die first,'_ a cruel voice taunted Arthur from a deep corner of his brain.

But if Alfred had managed to gather enough strength to think about Matthew's survival, Arthur couldn't let his mood plummet again.

 _If Alfred convinces himself that Matthew is going to make it, it's going to be even worse when Matthew does die._

Arthur sank his teeth into his lower lip to smother the dark thoughts clawing at his chest.

"Did you get the book, Francis?" he asked as he released Alfred from the hug.

Fortunately, Francis nodded instead of questioning the abrupt change of topic.

" _Howl's Moving Castle_ ," he explained, waving the blue tome in his right hand. "Matthew loved it, didn't he? I know it was a few years ago, maybe it's a bit childish for him now, but—"

"No, it's perfect," Alfred replied as he got up from the chair to get the book. "He used to be obsessed with this book when he first read it. He pestered me so much to read it as well…"

Alfred's voice trailed off. He stopped in front of Matthew's bed, his eyes growing dimmer.

"I never listened to him," he concluded in a small voice.

Arthur couldn't bear to look at him so dejected.

"Well, this means you'll hear the story for the first time, now," he declared, and tore the book from Alfred's hands before settling down on the chair that had been previously occupied by his younger brother.

As he opened the book and leafed through the pages to reach the beginning of the story, he spied out of a corner of his eye Alfred taking position on the armchair near the desk. Arthur waited for him to look comfortable, then he took a deep breath and started reading.

Arthur had always loved reading out loud. There was something more immersive in the way his voice filled the room, empathizing the emotions the setting conveyed as it got softer or higher, faster or slower. It wasn't long before Arthur found himself almost lost inside the book, his surroundings blurring at the corners of his perceptions.

The book itself helped. It was a book for children, that much was true – but at that moment, it was what made everything all better. It had been so long since Arthur had last read a book like that… he had never stopped reading even just a few pages every day – it was such an integral part of his soul that he couldn't part from it – but with his spare time dwindling, he had had to combine business with pleasure. In the last two years, his reading had almost entirely consisted of classics that were required or would be otherwise useful for his classes. There was no denying that Arthur still found great satisfaction in reading those books as well – yet, there was something different that came with reading a book just for pleasure. None of those thought-provoking and renowned classics had ever stirred inside him that total contentment that came out of reading good children's books. Arthur didn't know how he could have forgotten that. Reading such a simple yet pleasing book, he felt almost like a part of his soul was being reborn. His muscles finally lost their tension, even the stubborn headache softened.

Even the dryness of Arthur's throat was a pleasant sensation, in its familiarity. For a moment, Arthur's surroundings dimmed around him. He was still aware of Alfred and Matthew around him – but he could almost pretend they were still at home. Still children, tucked inside their beds and with Arthur reading them a bedtime story while Aila and George hovered at the doorway, their faces lit by soft smiles as they observed their children.

For some long, glorious moment, Arthur could almost pretend that everything was still alright.

The illusion was then shattered by the sickening, gurgling sound as Tiina adjusted the machinery to suck out the fluid accumulated inside Matthew's lungs.

Reality washed over Arthur like a wave, making his insides twist. He was still inside a hospital room, Matthew was still fighting for his life.

And Arthur, one of the major culprits to blame, didn't deserve even an instant of solace. The book was heavy in his hands. Almost a physical evidence of how much Arthur had let his life – and the life of his brothers along with him – be reduced in shambles.

Arthur masked the sudden catch of his voice under a cough and went on reading. For how much he wanted to stop, he couldn't let Alfred know that there was something wrong. Arthur might not be adult enough to be a good stepparent, but he could at least _pretend_ to. Which involved not burdening his charges with his own insecurities, most likely.

So, Arthur ignored the painful churning of his stomach and read on.

The farce was put to an end when everybody was kicked out of the room in time for Dr Oxenstierna's mid-day check-up.

"We should grab some lunch, since we are at it," Francis declared as soon as he spotted Arthur and Alfred.

Alfred perked up a little. Arthur consoled himself with the thought that at least, he didn't have to worry about his little brother wasting away without food. He followed Francis and Alfred without complaints, letting Francis's voice fill the space between them as he talked about the quirky costumer his co-workers had told him about when he had phoned for a check-up. Arthur didn't care, he let the words merge with the background noise. He couldn't deny the pang of gratitude, however. Francis was distracting Alfred in a way that was far beyond Arthur's current abilities, between the stress and the lack of focus caused by the former.

When he closed his eyes for a brief moment and massaged his forehead to try and ward off the headache, he could almost see Alistair glaring at him.

 _'Not good enough. Even Francis is better than you,'_ his older brother's sharp blue eyes seemed to say.

Arthur could only swallow down bile and open his eyes just in time to counter Alfred's questioning stare with a weak but hopefully reassuring smile. From then on, he made a conscious effort to stay present in the discussion. Francis's words still washed over him, but he made a point of humming and nodding from time to time. That seemed enough to reassure Alfred.

As soon as they stepped inside the bar, Arthur's stomach turned at the nauseating smell of food that hit his nostrils. How could he think about eating, when he didn't even know if Matthew was going to survive?

Arthur wasn't intentioned to waste money on food he would have gotten rid of, but Francis ordered a plain toast for him before he could refuse. At that point, throwing a tantrum would have only served to alert Alfred of the fact Arthur wasn't eating enough. Arthur could do nothing but scowl at Francis's pointed stare.

"Add a double coffee as well, please," he decided then.

It probably wasn't going to help his stomach, but Arthur needed to focus. The way his order made Francis's frown deepen for a moment was only an added bonus.

"I'm not sure it would be good for you," Francis started in a chiding voice, but Alfred's eyebrows rose in alarm and he couldn't go any further.

Arthur barely suppressed a smirk. If Francis was going to use Alfred's presence against him, he should expect the favour to be returned.

Francis was simmering in irritation when they sat down at a small table with their food. Normally, Arthur would have found that amusing – but at that moment, he was only hollow.

He forced himself to nibble on his toast and zoned out as Alfred and Francis made some small talk. The bread was like cardboard inside his mouth, and it weighed like a stone inside his stomach. For how much Arthur tried to wash it down with coffee, he ended up feeling queasy before even finishing a slice. He set the remaining piece on the plate, nauseated by the mere sight.

"You have to eat it all, at least," Francis commented with a frown.

"Have you eaten anything since yesterday?" Alfred added, the concern ringing clear in his voice in spite of his words being slightly muffled by the sandwich he hadn't stopped chewing on.

The picture made Arthur's stomach flip.

"Of course I have eaten. And I'm going to finish this, no need to worry – I just thought my phone vibrated. Wanted to check if I had gotten any new message."

Ignoring the way Francis's brow furrowed at the two blatant lies, Arthur took the phone out of his pocket. He barely managed to keep the surprise from showing through his features as he realized the red led signalled he actually _had_ an unread message.

His heart skipped a beat when he opened the notification.

"Bloody hell," he couldn't help but swear in a hoarse voice as reality washed over him like a cold shower.

Francis and Alfred started.

"What is it?" Francis asked urgently, bending over the table and towards him.

Arthur shook his head.

"Nothing bad. Actually, I could even say it's good news… I just received an e-mail saying that my Monday and Tuesday classes are cancelled due to a power outage at the campus that is going to require some maintenance works. It's just… I had completely forgotten I had classes to attend."

Arthur's head was spinning.

The entire ordeal felt suspended in time, detached from reality. From the moment he had heard Matthew's scream, everything had been enveloped in a frantic haze that had prevented him from thinking about anything but the emergency at hand. Part of his brain had almost behaved as if the world around him had stopped existing.

But the world kept spinning, the time flowing. Arthur's other incumbencies didn't have the grace to vanish into thin air in order to leave him some time to grieve. They were still pressing down his shoulders, clinging to his throat tightly enough to almost cut off his breath.

"I'm _not_ going to school tomorrow," Alfred declared firmly, straightening his back. His features were set in determination. "Look. You have my word I'll start working harder and I'll fix my grades, if that's what it takes – but I'm not leaving Matthew's side until he wakes up. That's not negotiable."

Arthur's head was reeling.

"I wasn't going to say you had to go to school," was the single, lame answer he could offer, "This is more important."

He didn't know what to say. Alfred, offering to study?

 _'You underestimated him,'_ a cruel voice mocked Arthur from a corner of his brain. Arthur smothered it down with a big sip of coffee that scalded his throat.

Alfred looked about as surprised as Arthur was feeling.

"Oh," he muttered before going back to his sandwich.

"A few days aren't going to change much," Francis reasoned, "I'm sure your teachers will understand."

Francis was right. Moreover, if Alfred actually ended up abiding by his promise, he would make up for the lost times after those two days more than he had the entire year.

Arthur couldn't say the same for himself, however. Even without classes, there was his part of the group project he still needed to work on, the last final due the following week with a paper he still hadn't started… he didn't know how he could have forgotten.

Nothing of that mattered, with the condition Matthew was in – but Arthur still had to do it. He felt like his throat was closing off.

"Arthur? Are you all right?"

Arthur answered to Francis's concerned question with a firm nod.

"As well as I can be, given the situation."

 _Get a grip of yourself!_

He couldn't have Alfred or Francis worry about his academic life, and at the same time, he had to work on his project.

 _Well, I have an entire sleepless night ahead of me. I can make use of it, at least. I have to ask Francis to bring my laptop…_

The thought of spending the night working on school projects instead of keeping Matthew company stung like a betrayal. However, Matthew loved hearing about what Arthur did at school. Arthur pictured himself inside the sterile room, illustrating the techniques he was going to employ in writing the script to a comatose Matthew, with the ventilator whirring in the background. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time, the last threads of sanity threatening to snap as he once again realized how much he had let his responsibilities slip through his fingers. How utterly he had failed.

But Alfred and Francis were still in front of him. Arthur needed to calm down.

He drank the rest of the coffee in a single sip and shoved the toast in his mouth, swallowing almost without chewing.

"I want to get back," he declared, jerking up from the chair. "The check-up must be almost over – Dr Oxenstierna will want to talk to me."

A glance at the table revealed that Alfred had yet to finish eating and was staring at Arthur with wide eyes.

"You two can stay here for a bit longer," Arthur amended in a kinder voice, "You know Dr Oxenstierna will want to talk with me alone. I'll write Francis a message as soon as you can get back inside, all right?"

Arthur didn't wait for an answer. He stopped for a moment to squeeze Alfred's shoulder in what he hoped to be a comforting gesture, then he took off in long strides. His head was spinning, his stomach churning. He needed to be alone and contemplate his failures, and at the same time, he couldn't afford the break-down doing that would have ensued.

And, by the time Arthur was back to the ICU room, another concern was added to the pile pressing down his chest.

Dr Oxenstierna's face was an impenetrable mask. Neither positive nor negative seeped through his stern features; his sharp, bright eyes seemed to cut into Arthur.

For a moment, Arthur forgot to breathe. The whirring of the ventilator fused with a buzzing in the background.

Then, like in a dream, the corner of Dr Oxenstierna's lips curved into the slightest smile.

"Matthew is responding well to the new antibiotic. His temperature has finally gone down to acceptable levels and his blood pressure went up a bit. His conditions are still severe and he's still extremely weak, it's too soon to talk about taking him off of life support – but things are definitely looking up. If he keeps improving at this rate, we may even talk about decreasing the sedation."

Arthur's legs went weak at the enormity of those words. He stumbled and had to catch himself against the edge of the bed for support.

"Is… is this true? Is he truly getting better?"

Matthew didn't look any different. Still asleep. His ashen face still slack.

But the doctor's assessment couldn't lie. When Dr Oxenstierna nodded, Arthur was ready to burst into tears. He pressed a trembling hand against his eyes to try and collect himself.

 _Thank you. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…_

Arthur wasn't religious, he didn't even know who he was praying to. Yet, he felt like he should address his gratitude to somebody. The smiling faces of George and Aila danced in front of his eyes.

 _Thank you for giving Matthew back to us._

Matthew's survival wasn't certain, yet. Nevertheless, the fact there had been an improvement made Arthur's chest burst with joy. For the first time, hope blossomed inside his chest. Arthur would have the time to reflect on his faults later. Now, it was time to be grateful – and, more importantly, share the good news with Alfred.

* * *

The smell of coffee filled his nostrils. Ushered conversation buzzed inside Alfred's ears like white noise, without him being able to detect any word. And, in front of him, Gilbert stirred his coffee, the spoon clicking against the ceramic mug from time to time.

After having shared Alfred's joy at the news Matthew had started to improve so much he had been taken off of sedation the previous night and was likely to start regaining consciousness within the day, Gilbert had fallen silent and concentrated on his breakfast.

Alfred's muscles stiffened a bit more with each moment of wait. Gilbert didn't look angry, but there was some tension in his posture that had never vanished. Not to mention how unusual that silence was for him.

At last, Gilbert raised the mug to his lips and drank most of its content in a single, long sip. He took a deep breath as he placed it back on the table. His red eyes focused on Alfred's face.

"You're probably wondering why I wanted to talk with you, since the matter with Ivan is now solved and nobody pressed charges." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed again. "To tell the truth, I myself don't know where to start… but well, I guess a good point would be this: do you know why I became a paramedic?"

Clearly, Alfred didn't. In truth, he didn't know much about Gilbert in general; he was just familiar with him because he was Ludwig's older brother and they had met a few times. Due to his eccentric appearance and behaviour, Gilbert was hard to forget. However, Alfred couldn't say he was close to either of the Beilschmidt brothers. He had started frequenting Ludwig because he was Felicia's best friend (or boyfriend in denial, but that was only Alfred's opinion) but they had never been too close. After Alfred had met Allen and Allyson, Ludwig had never made any mystery of his dislike towards them or the behaviour Alfred had picked up from them. On his part, Alfred had regarded him as too stern and stuck to the rules. They had drifted apart as a result. Now, Alfred discovered that he regretted it – but it had nothing to do with what Gilbert was trying to tell him, most likely.

He shook his head, and Gilbert resumed talking.

"I wasn't expecting you to… Well then, let me tell you a story. You know that Ludwig and I live with our grandfather – so, you must also know that our parents died in a car accident. What you probably don't know is that Ludwig and I were in the car as well. I was seventeen, at that time. Barely older than you are. And I was a full-fledged troublemaker, even if I wanted to call myself a rebel. I scorned school and picked every opportunity to get into a fight with my parents. I don't even remember what we were arguing about, that afternoon. It might have had something to with the fact I had been late and delayed the entire family, but I can't be sure. I remember my father scolding me about something…"

Gilbert's voice softened, his eyes glazed over as if he were looking at something far away.

"…and then, my mother yelled. I remember it so clearly – she yelled, because she had seen a truck swerve. I turned just in time to see it coming straight at us. Then, there was only confusion. The truck struck our car and sent it over the guardrail. It flipped over. My parents both died on the impact. But Ludwig… Ludwig was still alive. He had hit his head, so he was unconscious – and there was also something wrong with his breathing. I, instead, was mostly unscathed. I could reach Ludwig. Touch him. Potentially, help him – but I didn't know _how_ to do that. I could only listen as his breathing got more and more strained. I thought I was going to witness him dying without being able to help."

Gilbert stopped to take a breath. Alfred didn't move, the horror kept his limb paralyzed.

"And then, an ambulance arrived. It was a paramedic who extracted Ludwig from the car, who did everything to keep him alive. And, in the meantime, he also talked to me and reassured me. His name was Frederich, but he told me to call him Fritz. And not only he saved my brother's life, he also changed mine. Seeing him work, I realized two things. One was that I wanted to have the same medical knowledge, in order to be able to help my family on my own in case it was needed. The second was that I wanted to be like Fritz. I also wanted to help people – to be the reason somebody could still hug their loved ones instead of having to bury them. And that's why I'm here now."

Silence fell between them. Alfred slowly started becoming aware of the chatter around him again, but he had eyes only for Gilbert.

He didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry…" he muttered awkwardly, as Gilbert downed the rest of the coffee.

His stomach coiled as he thought more clearly about the situation. He wished he couldn't relate, but he did. And painfully so.

Gilbert shrugged.

"Eh, it was a long time ago. I've gotten over it. But, it was hard at first. For a while, I blamed myself for everything. I started thinking the accident might not have happened if my father hadn't been distracted by arguing with me, that we wouldn't have been in that place at that moment if I hadn't delayed our leaving because I wanted to throw a tantrum… I think you can understand this."

Alfred did. So much that he found himself unable to hold Gilbert's piercing stare. Instead, he lowered his eyes on a napkin and started playing around with it, folding and unfolding the corners with the tip of his fingers.

"And seeing you yesterday reminded me of myself. So full of rage and misplaced guilt. So… what I am trying to say here is that whatever happened isn't your fault. As a person who went through the same shit, my words count twice as much. All right?"

Gilbert waited until Alfred had raised his head before going on.

"And second, I understand all your anger and frustration – but also your fear at feeling so helpless. So, if you ever want to talk… I'm not a therapist, which I think all of you should see, by the way, but… sometimes, you don't need a therapist but just an older friend. I can be that for you, if you need it. You can just give me a call, all right. I can give you my phone number, or—"

"I don't have my phone," Alfred interrupted him, "I forgot to ask Arthur where he had put it, yesterday. I guess I can ask Francis, though. And… thank you."

The last words were said in a small, soft voice. Alfred didn't like how vulnerable Gilbert made him feel. Yet, after that talk, he was also feeling somehow lighter.

Gilbert smirked.

"Nah, don't mention it. I'm here to help. What kind of person would I be, if I didn't put my superior experience at use to help others? Now I gotta go to work, though. See you around!"

Even as Gilbert's voice had taken a teasing intonation, his smile was genuine. Alfred stared at the man walking away before shaking himself.

 _Gilbert eventually forgave himself._

While it wasn't exactly the same situation, Alfred couldn't deny the similarity.

 _Could I truly forgive myself, too?_

Alfred's stomach flipped. He didn't know, it was still too early. But, as he thought about Matthew finally getting better, at the fact he would soon be able to see his brother's eyes again… warmth spread inside his chest. Finally, he could believe things could be fixed.

There was also another part of Gilbert's tale, one Alfred mulled over as he walked to his brother's hospital room. Gilbert had found a way to channel his energies into helping people. Alfred wanted to help people, too.

Lately, he had been thinking big. Becoming a celebrity, having money for charity… it would be good, of course. But, would it truly be the same as helping people so directly? Alfred didn't know. What he knew was that he felt like his eyes had been opened to another possibility.

He shook his head as he pushed open the door to Matthew's ICU room. He would have time to think about his future career later. For now, all he wanted to focus on was something he had neglected for too long, his family.

* * *

There was an annoying sound. It whirred constantly in Matthew's ears, like a fastidious mosquito, but more regular. Then, there was the beeping that came with it.

Matthew wanted to go back to sleep. He had the feeling that he had been asleep for a long time, but he felt exhausted beyond belief.

Yet, the noise slowly brought him back to the brink of consciousness. And with the noise, came the discomfort. Matthew's body was so heavy it felt like it was made of stone. His stomach throbbed, his chest burned from deep within. His throat was painfully dry, something alien scratched it.

Matthew wanted to whimper, but he couldn't.

At last, he was aware of the strong hand grasping his too weak one, of the fingers that brushed his hair away from his forehead. There were voices, too. Talking slowly, tenderly.

Even without being able to make out the words, Matthew could recognize his brothers.

He wanted to call out to them, but he found himself unable to. He couldn't move, either – just bend his fingers, barely.

Panic mounted inside Matthew's chest, constricting it. The beeping peaked up madly. The voices were urgent, now.

Matthew wanted to call out to them, but his body wouldn't answer.

At last, with a titanic effort, Matthew managed to pry his eyelids open.

His brother's blurred faces welcomed him from above. They were haggard and worn out, with concern clouding their eyes. The smiles curling their lips looked out of place.

Arthur cupped Matthew's cheek with his hand.

His mouth was moving. This time, Matthew grasped part of the words.

"…need to calm down. We're at the hospital, you…"

The blood ran cold in Matthew's veins.

 _We're at the hospital._

Arthur was still talking, but Matthew could hear him no more under the ringing in his ears.

 _At the hospital._

He didn't know why he was there. All he knew was that everything hurt and he was so weak he couldn't lift a single finger.

But, they were at the hospital. And Arthur was there with him, another concern that should have been avoided had been dropped on his back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew could almost see Allyson address him a smirk. The cruel glint in her brown eyes could be nothing but satisfaction.

 _'Looks like I won, Mattie-kin,'_ she whispered in a cruel voice, _'I was right all along.'_

Matthew burst into tears.

 **(word count: 8,206)**

* * *

 **Notes** **:**

Tiina (Kristiina) is Nyo Finland  
Felicia is Nyo Italy

I'm doing my best, but English still isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes or oddly-phrased sentences!

And if you have any questions or want further updates/information, you can also find me on tumblr under the username feynavaley.

Until next time! :)


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